“Like jelly,” he says in English, laughing at the expression he picked up from one of the other skaters.
Katia jogs past us, hair in a high ponytail, throwing him a grin.
“Race you on the sled push,” she says.
He hesitates, looks at me.
“Yes.”
I cross my arms and watch, pretending that I don’t clockthe way a few other coaches track him, too, or how easily he has begun to exist inside this environment without shrinking.
That part should make me immensely proud. And it does.
It also makes something in my rib cage stay permanently braced.
I shift my weight, scanning the field to see who else is around. Isabella isn’t hard to find.
She stands near the trainers’ table, coat unzipped and sunglasses pushed up into her hair, talking with Nina and two federation reps whose names I still mix up. The leggings she’s wearing leave very little to the imagination, outlining legs that are still unmistakably built from years on the ice, powerful through the thighs and steady though the hips. Her core is taut and slim, and her posture is almost regal.
She isn’t trying to draw attention to herself, which somehow makes it worse. The kind of body that reads as capability before it reads as beauty. And I find myself adjusting to her without meaning to, my body drifting a fraction closer to her before I catch it.
I look away, but a beat too late, and I pray that she can’t see the slight blush that colors my cheeks from where she’s standing.
I haven’t spoken to her since the locker room, not really.
There were logistical exchanges. Nods in hallways after I left a Pilates workshop with some of the other coaches while our athletes were taking a ballet class. One moment near the concessions stand when we were both refilling our waterbottles.
None of that counts.
The kiss counts. The way she pulled back counts.
The way she unlocked the door and stepped out first, like she needed to reset the version of herself she’d just broken open, counts even more.
I drag my focus back to the sled lane just in time to see Rodrigo over-extend.
“Rodri,” I call out. Katia snaps her head to me and quirks her lips ever so slightly.
He adjusts immediately.
I don’t look back at Isabella after that. Choosing not to look is its own form of attention.
The day runs smoothly despite my mood, which I refuse to examine too closely. Both Rodrigo and Katia stay sharp through the drills, though they still sneak in moments of chaos with the other athletes.
I’m halfway through taking notes when someone stops beside me.
“You’re managing his training well,” Isabella says.
“Thanks,” I reply, still watching Rodrigo reset for his next run.
She follows my line of sight.
“He’s responding well to the added volume,” she adds.
“He always does.” I feel my tone, clipped and protective, but Isabella doesn’t flinch.
“I meant your restraint,” she says. “You’re not stacking too much on him.”
I glance at her then.
