My mother’s gaze shifts to her, slow. And something colder than the ice down below settles into this specific spot around us.
“That’s not your concern,” she says.
“Isn’t it?” Nina shoots back. “Because it seems to be affecting everyone around you.”
There’s a pause.
“Oh,” my mother says softly, like she’s just remembered something. “I wouldn’t be so quick to position yourself outside of this, Nina. Not when you’re still relying on the same structures to support your own career.”
Nina freezes.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I ask immediately.
Nina doesn’t move. She’s staring at our mother now, a hard, contained anger building behind her eyes. My father looks between them, genuinely confused.
“Vivienne,” he says, quieter now. “What are you talking about?”
My mother doesn’t look at him. “Nothing that concerns you, Sebastian.”
“That’s not how this works,” he says, more firmly. “If you’re making moves?—”
“I am not making moves,” she interrupts, and for the first time there’s irritation in her voice. “I am ensuring continuity. Stability.”
“At whose expense?” Nina asks.
“At no one’s expense,” my mother replies. “This is how things are done.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward again, pulling the focus back where it belongs. “This is how you do things. And I am not participating in it.”
My mother’s gaze snaps back to mine.
“Be careful,” she says quietly. And that fucking polite smile returns to her face.
“No,” I repeat, smiling back. “You be careful.”
“Princess,” I hear from behind me. “Why don’t we?—”
“Coach Montenegro,” my mother says, as if this is a completely different conversation, as if we are suddenly standing in front of cameras instead of in the middle of a situation that is very clearly unraveling. “I did want to thank you.”
Everything in me goes still.
Right next to me, Cecilia does the same, her body going rigid immediately and instinctively.
“Your willingness to participate in the program has been instrumental in demonstrating its viability,” my mother continues, her tone measured, polished. It sounds like she’s reciting a memorized press release, the version that will be circulated to all the media outlets that cover our sport. “Results like this don’t go unnoticed.”
So fucking polite. So completely disconnected from the reality of what actually happened on the ice.
Cecilia shifts beside me, enough that I feel the brush of our shoulders, the smallest break in alignment, when she understands exactly what my mother is doing.
“Jesus, Vivienne,” I say, reaching for Cecilia’s handwithout thinking, grounding myself in the feel of her skin, into something that belongs to me and not to them. “Cut the shit.”
“Jesus Christ, Isabella!” my father snaps, sharper now, the control slipping just enough to show through. “Who taught you those words?”
I laugh. It comes out easier than anything else has in the last five minutes—five years, even—short and disbelieving, almost as if we’ve suddenly stepped into a version of this conversation that belongs to a completely different decade.
Nina lets out a small chuckle.
“Oh my god,” she says, dragging a hand down her face before looking up at them. “She’s thirty-five years old.”
