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 longersomething 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 ofus, 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.”
CHAPTER 40
ISABELLA
“Ceci, no.”
