Chapter 39
CECILIA
The scores take a while to come in.
Long enough for the adrenaline to give way to a heavier pull low in my chest. It refuses to move even when everything else does.
Rodrigo is still breathing hard next to me, his hands gripping the edge of his knees, eyes fixed on the screen and trying to will the numbers into something specific if he stares long enough.
“Hey,” I murmur, leaning slightly towards him. “Breathe.”
He nods, quick, acknowledging my words but not fully processing them. I let my hand settle briefly against his back, grounding him, before I move it to his shoulder.
Sandra shifts on my other side, already watching the protocol and calculating placements, deductions, everything that matters now that the skate is over.
I don’t. Not really. Because I know this was the best he’s ever done.
The numbers confirm it a second later.
Rodrigo exhales sharply, something between a laugh and disbelief, and then he’s turning to me, grabbing onto my arm like he needs to anchor himself to something real.
“You did that,” I tell him, because he did. Because this belongs entirely to him.
He shakes his head immediately. “No, Ceci. We—”
“No,” I cut in, softer this time. “You.”
Sandra huffs out a quiet breath next to us. “You can argue about it later. For now, take the score, Rodri.”
He laughs then, still a little breathless, still a little disbelieving, and the moment falls into something good, earned. And I let myself sit in and feel it fully.
This is exactly what we came here for.
To place this boy on a podium, despite the noise and the politics. And all because of the work and the years and the effort it took to get here.
Just this.
Voices start filtering in behind us, and I start seeing the influx of cameras and people armed with mics coming in our direction.
But there’s a group of coaches to the right of us who are having a very heated conversation, words getting louder as the space starts to fill with movement.
“No, I heard it from someone on the board—”
“Armand’s done, it’s official—”
“Which means it’s hers.”
It takes a second for the words to separate themselves from the general hum of the rink, and for them to register in a way that means anything at all.
Sandra stills beside me, and it’s so reminiscent of that time, years ago, where she talked about embellishments and clean lines and talent.
“—they’re definitely already positioning her,” someone else adds, just behind us. “She’s the obvious choice.”
“Pierce?” another voice says. “I mean, who else?”
A tightness coils through my chest, thick and heavy in my veins.
Sandra shifts, just enough that her shoulder brushes mine.
“Don’t,” she murmurs under her breath before pasting on her skater smile. “There are cameras everywhere focusing on you.”
“It makes sense, especially after the program she launched—”
“Ascend?”
“Yeah. It’s all connected. Total PR to launch her into a leadership role. Her parents practically wrote the blueprint.”
I keep my eyes on Rodrigo talking to a reporter, smiling widely like he’s won Olympic gold. I find anything to distract me from the sudden and sharp awareness that is reconciling into place in my head.
I haven’t even told her yet. About the job and the fact that I’ve already started rearranging things in my head, in my life, quietly and carefully trying to build something as close to her as possible. Something we could ease into without breaking anything.
And now—
I exhale slowly.
If I move too fast, something will crack open beyond repair.
“Hey,” Rodrigo says, turning back towards me, still riding the high of his performance and completely in his own moment. “Did you see—”
“I saw,” I say quickly, forcing my voice back into place, into something steady that belongs here. “I think you need more media training, my man.”
“The nickname is going to stick, Ceci,” he replies with a laugh. “I feel it in my bones.”
“Okay, Mr. Dramatic. Let’s go cool down.”
The room I find is quieter but not totally silent. It’s contained enough that I can finally hear my thoughts, and I end up standing still longer than necessary after closing the door behind me, my hand resting on the handle like I forgot what I came here for in the first place.
I should be with Rodrigo.
That’s the first thought that comes through in the silence, sharp and practical and completely accurate to how I’ve operated for the past five years since becoming his coach.
But there’s nothing I can do about what is sitting underneath that feeling now, something that didn’t exist this morning, or maybe it did and I chose not to look at it too closely.
I haven’t even told her.
The thought returns, slower this time, heavier, no longer something I can brush aside with a different focus or a different task.
I haven’t told her that I said yes.
Just quietly, in emails and calls and conversations that existed outside of her, outside of us, as if I could keep both things moving forward without forcing them to collide.
As if there would be a moment when it would all make sense naturally, because it felt, this whole time, like we were moving in the same direction.
I let out a breath I don’t remember taking in, pressing the heel of my hand briefly to my forehead, grounding myself in something physical because my thoughts are moving way too fast and not fast enough at the same time.
Sandra said something. About allowing myself to want things, about not pretending.
Something about—
I shake my head, like the movement alone will help me reset the entire sequence if I just interrupt it long enough.
The door opens and almost hits me in the face.
I recognize the shoes first. Then the worried gasp, followed by the touch of her hand.
“Hey,” she says.
Her voice is even, controlled, exactly the way it sounds on her broadcasts, and tension curls in the middle of stomach at the contrast and the way she can move between those versions of herself so seamlessly.
I lift my head then, slower than I should, like I’m giving myself time to prepare for what I don’t fully understand yet.
She walks in and closes the door quietly behind her. She’s the image of composure: stick straight posture, expression unreadable and intentional.
“Hey,” I reply, and my voice sounds steady, which feels like a small victory I can’t acknowledge out loud.
She studies me for a moment, her gaze moving over my face like she’s trying to place exactly what it is that is not lining up.
“You disappeared,” she says after a beat, not accusatory. She’s shed her coat, I realize now, and she’s in that short, sparkly dress that makes her legs look infinitely long. God, she’s beautiful.
“I needed a second,” I answer, because it’s part of the truth. She nods once, accepting it without pushing, and that almost makes it worse. “I hear I’m supposed to congratulate you?” The words come out sharper and mean. I’m not intending to hurt her, but I know I did.
“What did you hear?”
I hold her gaze, and for a second I consider stepping back, letting it go, choosing the easier version of this moment where we don’t force anything into the open.
But the other version is louder now. The one that wants to explode and lay it all out, every vulnerability, every feeling I’ve collected over the years of never being enough. Not enough to fund, or to medal, or to choose.
“About the association,” I say. “Armand retired, effective immediately.”
She takes a deep breath.
“And you’re the new president and moving to Amsterdam.”