“Exactly,” she says. “See? That’s exactly what I mean.”
I start to say something, then stop. I’m suddenly aware of how thin my footing feels.
“It’s not personal,” she adds, quieter now. “I know that. You’re just used to something else.” She gestures vaguely behind her, towards the rink and the dorms, the entire infrastructure humming along without pause. “People like me fade into the background. We don’t have shiny things to show, so even our clean lines and our near-perfect technique don’t get noticed.”
“That’s not true. Not for me,” I say carefully.
She studies my face, not accusing. I stay still, let her talk.
“You once said,” she continues, “that skating didn’t needembellishment. That clean lines mattered more than being shiny.”
Cecilia’s voice isn’t raised, but it sharpens.
I pause, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. “I did?”
She lets out another humorless breath. “Of course you don’t remember.”
“I’m not saying that to dismiss you, Cecilia.” My words come out in a rush. “I just?—”
“It was confirmation of every questioning thought I already had about myself and my career.”
The street feels suddenly too open, too exposed. A cool breeze runs through us, lifting the edges of her hair. She pushes the strands back, annoyed at the interruption.
“People like you get to say things like that and walk away,” she adds. “People like me, like Rodrigo, have to live with the consequences.”
The words hit me like an unexpected fall on the ice. Hard, sharp, and painful. They are precise and calculated, and suddenly everything makes sense. Her distrust of me, the system, and the sport. How guarded she is and how protective she feels about her skater.
“I didn’t know,” I say finally.
“I know,” she replies. “That’s the problem.”
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant hum of an airplane overhead and the opening and closing of a car door somewhere down the street.
“I’m not asking you to fix it. I just needed you to know why this—” She gestures vaguely between us, “—is complicated.”
She nods once, like that’s enough. Like staying any longer would undo the work it took to say it.
“I need to go,” she says.
Cecilia turns before I can respond and starts walking again, faster this time, in the direction of the rink instead of the dorms.
I hesitate—then follow anyway.
CHAPTER 9
ISABELLA
Objectively,I know that what I’m doing is a mistake. I shouldn’t be following her.
The thought is clear and calm and arrives fully formed, which usually means I’m about to ignore it.
Cecilia walks fast, coat unzipped and flapping in the wind, breath visible in the cold as she cuts towards the rink. I tell myself I just want to resume the conversation. That this feels unfinished and it would be rude and unlike me to leave it like that.
None of that explains why I lengthen my stride. My short dress is riding up with every step, but I don’t care to fix it.
Cecilia doesn’t look back. She pushes through the side entrance with practiced familiarity. It’s the door staff uses when the main doors are locked for the night.
The lobby and hallways are much darker than during the day, and the overhead lights are dimmed to maintenance levels. Down by the boards, I can hear the echo of loud music and even louder laughter.
