“I’m proud of the person you decided to become after all of it.”
Isabella looks down briefly, and when she looks back at me, there’s something almost unbearably whimsical in her expression.
“You can’t say things like that to me,” she murmurs.
I smile a little. “Why?”
“Because now I want to ravage you and instead we have to supervise the children.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
She laughs softly and reaches for me at the same time, one hand sliding behind my neck until she can pull me to her.
“I love you,” she says quietly against my mouth, like it still surprises her every time she gets to say it out loud.
“I love you, too, Princess.”
EPILOGUE
CECILIA
The week has flownby so fast, I have hardly had any time to catch up on emails and text messages. Sandra has texted me no less than eighty-one times, demanding updates every twenty minutes, even though the entire country is apparently getting ready to watch Rodrigo skate live at three in the morning and she can see what’s happening on the broadcast.
“Ceci,” Rodrigo says from his spot on the bench. He’s tied and untied his skates a few times already. Although he claims he’s not a superstitious person, for a freshly eighteen-year-old he seems to be very much set in his ways. “Can you please help me with this one? I can’t seem to tie it strong enough.”
“Yep,” I reply quickly. He is drumming his fingers on his right leg, and I can now see how nervous he is. Third after the short program and barely two points off silver. If he skates clean tonight, there’s a real possibility Argentina leaves these Olympics with its first figure skating medal.
“What’s going on?”
His gaze is to the floor. He’s been avoiding looking me in the eyes for a few days. Warm-ups and our practice runs have been incredible, but finally the mental games of this sport have caught up to him.
“Nothing.”
“Rodri,” I say as I sit next to him. The Zamboni is almost done with its first lap, and there’s a gaggle of skaters ready to go out for a quick loop right before the next program starts. The stands are slowly filling up with groups of people wearing different colored jackets. “It’s okay to be nervous, you know?”
“I’m not nervous,” he says, but he bites his lower lip so hard, I’m scared he will draw blood.
“Okay.”
“Just please do my skate tighter.”
Isabella texted me three times this morning reminding me to breathe, which is deeply hypocritical coming from a woman who cried during practice yesterday because Rodrigo landed all his jumps clean in his first run-through.
I crouch in front of him and take his skate in my hands. The leather is warm from his foot, the laces slightly damp, already loosened from the way he’s been pulling at them without realizing it. I retie it slowly, deliberately, grounding myself in the familiar sequence. Cross. Pull. Lock. Breathe.
He watches my hands almost obsessively, and I can see his lips moving along with my fingers. It feels like he’s about to unravel right in front of my eyes, and if one more thing gets out of control, he will pass out.
“You’ve done this a thousand times,” I say, low and sure.It sounds a little terse, but not unkind. Never unkind. “Your boots aren’t going to betray you today. I can feel it.”
“You and your fucking woo-woo.”
“Language.”
He huffs out something that might be a laugh, but I see his fingers again, drumming against the slats, away from where my eye could catch. “Everything betrays me eventually.”
I glance up at him then. Eighteen years old, sitting on a hard bench in a Japanese rink, carrying the weight of history on his shoulders like he volunteered for it instead of stumbling into it by being talented enough to force the entire sport to pay attention. His knee is bouncing and his shoulders are tight, one of them creeping up higher than the other, just like when he skates.
I finish the knot and press my thumb against it, firm. “Mirame.”
