CHAPTER 1
CECILIA
“Try not to looktooimpressed,”I tell Rodrigo, but I’m the first one doing an absolute shit job at pretending that this here, right before our very own eyes, is not spectacular.
He tilts his head back anyway, slow and unapologetic, taking in the rafters, the banners, the glass that stretches from floor to ceiling at the back of the building. I hear a small sigh, and then he smiles, almost to himself, as if this whole experience is a wonderful dream and he can’t believe it, either.
Lake Jasper Training Center sits at the eastern edge of the Colorado mountains, just far enough from Denver to feel removed from everything else, like it was carved out of the rock on purpose. At least two Olympic-sized sheets of ice, altitude conditioning rooms, on-site physical therapy, nutrition labs, video analysis suites—the kind of infrastructure that turns potential into medals if you are able to access it.
Facilities like this don’t run themselves. Every hour of ice, every off-ice training block, every physio slot is accountedfor. Places like these are built, maintained, and adjusted at a level that can only be explained aselite.And someone is always in the background moving things around so that skaters like Rodrigo can step onto perfect ice and pretend it was always meant for them.
Lake Jasper Training Center is primarily built for Team USA winter athletes; a pipeline disguised as a campus. International skaters like Rodrigo are allowed in under certain programs, but they are rare, and never accidental. There’s a pretty rigorous selection process involving applications, federation endorsements, performance reviews, and funding approvals. Layers of people deciding whether an athlete is worth the ice time.
We didn’t apply in the traditional sense.
Three weeks after Worlds, Argentina’s federation president called me into her office. Sandra spoke fast, like she was trying to cram as much information in my head as possible so that I couldn’t say no, outlining a “development opportunity” at Lake Jasper that had opened up for the summer session. A discretionary spot that was competitive and limited, and obviously a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Rodrigo.
I asked her what that meant, and she said that there was interest in Rodrigo and then used a series of words that were supposed to quantify his trajectory, and I stopped listening.
“Funding,” she said, “is partially supported. For himandhis coach.”
None of the athletes from Argentina had this. Not at his age or even for those more established in their sports. Not even close.
So I asked what I needed to ask, made sure we still had some sort of say in his development, and then I did the only thing that made sense.
I said yes.
“Iamimpressed,” he replies, and then grins, like the little kid he still sometimes is, even as a seventeen-year-old figure skater, ranked among the top five in the world.
Rodrigo placed at Worlds and it shifted the ground under him.
Argentina now has an Olympic spot in men’s figure skating for the first time in decades, and immediately his name started circulating in the kind of conversations that usually happen without us.
Doors opened, fast.
Lake Jasper isn’t a reward. It’s a monumental stepping stone. For Rodrigo, it means access to ice that isn’t shared with recreational skaters and tween birthday parties, to specialists who don’t split their time fifteen ways, to a training environment designed for winning instead of miracles. It’s everything I ever wanted for my career and never got, so he’s getting it instead. And not by accident.
“Okay,” I sigh. Rodrigo is allowed to be impressed, of course. He’s earned that much. I’m the one who needs constant reminders of why we’re here. “Then try not to look too surprised, though, please.”
Rodrigo is already halfway to the boards, shiny new skate bag banging against his hip, shoulders pitched forward like the ice is pulling him by the collar. He turns around while walking backwards on unlaced sneakers, his version of slowing down and practicing patience.
“Cinco minutos,” I tell him, and I say it like I’m doing him a favor.
“Ceci,” he bemoans, dragging the word out like any of this is negotiable. “It’s open warm-ups. People are out there. I can literally hear blades.”
“I’m aware,” I say. “Tengo oídos.”
He points at me with a gloved finger like I’m the crux of all his problems. “Then why are we standing here?”
“Because,” I say, fishing our badges out of my backpack. I put them there two nights ago, right after we checked in, and I’ve double checked they were still there every few hours since then, pretending this wasn’t going to feel enormous to both of us. “This is the part where we need to do things in order.”
He groans. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as superstitious as you.”
“It’s not superstition,” I say, even though I don’t bother sounding convinced. I hold his badge up between us. “It’s routine.Ponetelo.And I think it’s because you haven’t hung out with hockey players enough. They’re much worse.”
He snatches his credential from my hand and tries to clip it to his jacket in one sharp movement, misses the clasp, mutters under his breath, then forces himself to slow down and gets it on the second attempt. I pretend I didn’t notice the failed one.
Rodrigo takes one step towards the door, then pauses like he suddenly remembers I’m not just background noise in his life.
