He glances up at the rafter where my eyes had been moments ago, and his gaze lingers.
“Yes,” he says mildly. “I imagine the building feels different when you’re not performing in it.”
“I guess so.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The rink hums softly around us—refrigeration systems cycling underfoot, air vents shifting warm and cold currents through the cavernous space. Somewhere down the corridor a door slams faintly in preparation for the day. Probably Gertrude walking in ready to fire up her beloved Zamboni.
Armand clears his throat.
“I’m heading to Denver this morning,” he says. “Meeting with the Olympic Committee and the president of the United States federation.”
“Busy week.”
“Very.”
He folds his hands in front of him and studies me like I’m one of the development athletes he’s evaluating.
“I wanted to speak with you before I left.”
I slide my skates a few inches across the ice and turn my lower body so I’m facing him more directly.
“About?”
“Ascend.”
Ah.The global head of the governing body for my sport folds his forearms on the boards.
“It’s ambitious.”
The word is careful. Polite enough to pass as approval if someone overheard it. But here, we’re alone.
“It’s necessary, don’t you think?”
He watches me for a moment.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been on the ice, Princess,” he says. “The sport has evolved considerably.”
I huff a quiet laugh before I can stop myself, and he tilts his head in a move that is most likely intended to make him look professionally curious, but instead makes him look less authoritative than he wants to.
“You disagree?”
“I think the marketing has evolved,” I say. “Everything is nicer and shinier. The costumes are more colorful and the music is much more fun, that’s for sure.”
Armand’s mouth tightens slightly.
“Access has expanded globally. Just look at the amount of skaters we had at Worlds this year.”
My eyes drift towards the empty stands.
“The same handful of countries still dominate the podium, Armand. It’s been that way since before my parents, too.”
I brace my palms on the ice and stand, the cold rushing up my legs as my blades scrape lightly against the smooth surface. From here, eye level with him across the boards, the banners disappear from view.
“Look around this room,” I say quietly. “The real stories in this sport aren’t hanging up there.”
He doesn’t turn to look.
