Chapter 38
ISABELLA
I feel slightly unhinged. A little paranoid. Like everyone is watching me and everyone is going to know I just had sex in the locker room with the most stunning, incredible, talented coach that exists.
No one is looking at me. At least not in the way I’m thinking.
That’s the first thing I confirm when I step back into the lobby, smoothing my hair into something that resembles intentional, adjusting my coat like that will reset me into the version who belongs here.
It doesn’t.
Everything feels sharper. Louder. And it hits me all at once—the hum of the rink, the echo of blades on ice, the clipped conversations in passing. It’s like I’ve stepped back into a world that kept moving while I was somewhere else entirely.
I shouldn’t feel like this. Not before a broadcast.
I’ve done this hundreds of times. I know where to look, what to say, how to hold a moment and shape it into a meaningful story for those who are watching from the outside.
I know, with certainty, how to control the narrative. I’ve learned from the best at this.
But my body hasn’t caught up yet. There’s still heat under my skin, still the lingering imprint of her hands, her mouth, the way she said my name with such esteem.
I exhale slowly as I step into the commentating booth, placing my notes down with more precision than necessary, grounding myself in something structured and familiar.
“Hey, John,” I say, apologetic as I take my seat next to him and quickly adjust my headset. The ice is in front of us, as large and spectacular as always, and the usual screens are set right below the eyeline, allowing us to choose where to look.
My commentating partner from the past two years glances over, easy smile already in place. “Cutting it a little close today, Princess.”
“I got pulled in the lobby,” I reply, just as easily, flipping through my notes even though I don’t need to. “Totally lost track of time.”
There’s a small pause, and then a throat clears from my left.
I don’t have to look to know Nina is there, arms crossed and a perfectly neutral expression that could easily pass as disinterest to anyone who doesn’t know her.
One brow barely lifts and it’s enough to make me wince.
“Everything good?” John asks, already turning back to his monitor.
“Yes,” I say, and this time I mean it in the only way that matters right now. “Good to go.”
I settle back into position, straighten my posture, adjust the mic.
Breathe. Focus.
And just like that, I step back into the version of myself who belongs here.
On the broadcast, I keep my voice even.
“Argentina hasn’t had a men’s skater place at this level in consecutive competitions in decades,” I say, eyes on the monitor as the replay loops. “What stands out to me, John, isn’t just the technical content—though it’s there—but the way he recovers.”
John is looking at me and nodding in agreement. “And it’s evident that this kid knows how to recover after a mistake. He doesn’t disappear, he stays with the music. That’s maturity we don’t usually see at seventeen, Princess. I’m sure you agree.”
I do.
But I don’t look at him.
I keep my focus on the screen, on the edges of Rodrigo’s movement, on the precision that exists because someone put it there over and over again until it stopped being effort and simply became part of him.
Nina looks at me, then taps her wrist three times.
I continue, regardless, because this part matters. “Absolutely, John. This kind of skating doesn’t come from shortcuts. It comes from repetition and trust. And his coach, Cecilia Montenegro, has built that into him, and it is very evident in the scoring.”
The camera cuts to Rodrigo in the kiss-and-cry, still breathing hard, eyes bright and disbelieving. His coach stands just behind him, one hand lightly resting on his shoulder, not claiming the moment but grounding her athlete into the present.
I feel it in my chest. The way my heart beats a little faster.
The quiet pride that doesn’t belong to me.
And still—
“I’ll say this,” John adds, leaning slightly closer to his mic. “There’s been a lot of conversation lately about development programs, Ascend being one of them—”
I don’t hesitate.
“Programs don’t skate,” I interrupt, and it comes out smooth yet final. “Athletes do. And more importantly, coaches do. What you’re seeing here is the result of a very specific relationship—one that prioritizes trust, consistency, and long-term development.”
There’s a small beat.
John picks it up easily. This is not about me, or about what my dollars could do. This is about the skater and why he’s there, currently waiting for the scoring that could potentially place him in second place among the top skaters in the world.
“Fair enough,” he says. “And speaking of development—those blades were on fire tonight.”
I almost laugh, but I catch it, instead choosing to smile as I talk.
“They are,” I reply, allowing just enough of my amusement through. “He attacked the ice in a way that forces us to pay attention.”
“Fireblade, right?” John says, glancing at his notes with a grin. “I’ve been hearing that nickname floating around all week.”
There it is. I shake my head slightly, just enough for it to read as amused on camera. “We’ll see if it sticks. But if he keeps skating like this, he might not have a choice.”
The replay ends and the cameras are back on Cecilia and Rodrigo. From the corner of my eye, I can see them on the boards. She’s murmuring something in his ear and he’s laughing, head tipped back and eyes closed.
I let a beat pass before I finish it off. “This is a great foundation at such an early age. And it gives me much joy that he’s going to represent his country at our next Winter Olympic Games in a few months, John.”
“That quadruple Lutz was definitely a thing of beauty. I don’t think I’ve seen that live, ever,” John adds.
I’ve seen it, of course, at my rink, probably more times than I can count.
But here, on competition ice and with the stakes so high, it’s still awe-inspiring.
How he skates with so much joy and fulfillment. “Absolutely spectacular.”
I nod, already shifting back into stillness. Back into control.
Nina looks at me with a pleased smile and starts removing her headset, getting ready for the next thing on the schedule while the ice is reset for the next event.
Back into—
“And I hear congratulations might be in order.”
I freeze.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone watching to notice.
But inside my body, everything comes to a screeching halt.
I turn my head slightly, slow enough for it to feel intentional.
“For what?” I ask, dumbfounded.
John smiles, completely unaware. “Word is you’re stepping into a bigger role soon. With Armand Paulsen retiring from his position as president of the skating union, effective immediately… There’s talk, Princess.”
Not surprise. Recognition.
Of course. Of course they would do this here.
Now. On this stage.
I keep my expression neutral and controlled, just the way I was taught by my mother. “I think people like to speculate,” I say evenly, my hands still folded neatly on my lap. I smile. “Everyone loves a little gossip.”
Nina is watching me closely now, blinking rapidly, and then she stills completely, her mouth pressing into a thin line so reminiscent of our mother, calculating the fallout.
John laughs lightly. “Well, if it happens, you heard it here first, folks.”
I don’t respond. Because if I do, it won’t be the version of me who belongs in this chair.
The red light flickers off.
And just like that, I’m done pretending.