I don’t answer immediately. Because over the course of the past few weeks, that’s the part that has changed.
Two days ago, I would’ve said yes without hesitation.
“I don’t like that I didn’t stop you,” I say instead.
Her icy blue eyes soften a fraction. “I didn’t think you wanted to.”
“I didn’t,” I admit. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t complicate things.”
Across the field, someone whistles for a rotation change. Rodrigo and Katia jog back to me, flushed and smiling.
“Next set?” he asks, and I can almost see the adrenaline coursing through his body.
“In two minutes.”
They both nod and grab their water bottles, lying on the grass and looking up at the sky. They start talking about the plans they have for the evening, maybe heading down into town to have dinner with some of the other kids.
Isabella takes a step back, creating space without being asked.
“I’ll see you later, Cecilia.”
I watch her go with my stopwatch in my hand, annoyed at how much space her absence immediately takes up.
CHAPTER 11
ISABELLA
“Cansomeone grab the bands and put the small cones back before we all pretend we don’t see them?” Nina calls from the far end of the field, her voice cutting through the scrape of sleds and the low hum of conversation.
By the time I look up from my tablet, most of the field is in motion. The mid-afternoon sun is still high, but the air has that sharp mountain edge to it, dry and thin once it gets to one’s lungs.
The kids are still hanging out on the field, groups of them chatting and laughing as if a morning under the spicy mountain sun hadn’t been physically demanding at all.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
“I can do it,” Cecilia says at the same time.
We both pause.
A few yards away, Rodrigo is crouched by a cooler with Katia, arguing about whether electrolyte packets taste better in cold- or room-temperature water, which feels like the sort of discussion only seventeen-year-old elite athletes couldtake seriously. Nina glances at me from the folding table where she’s talking to one of the physical therapists, catches the beat of silence between me and Cecilia, and pointedly looks away.
Cecilia adjusts the clipboard in her hand. “You can carry the heavy things.”
“Of course,” I say with a smile. “I live to serve.”
“I can tell.”
I fall into step beside her anyway, each carrying pieces of equipment into the rink’s storage room.
The service hallway through the back of the building is always cooler than the ice itself. The air is thick and sharp, and it cuts through my bones immediately. It always smells of Zamboni fuel, no matter how deeply we clean, and how hard we try to get rid of it. The storage room door is already propped open, an old hockey puck jammed on the top hinge to hold the heavy door from closing.
Inside, it’s tight. Shelves on both sides, stacked with bands, weights, foam rollers and cones. There’s a pile of mats towards the back, and it looks like it’s one box away from collapsing onto me. There is no real space to move without bumping into someone or something.
Cecilia heads straight for the mats.
“Wait!” I call, one step ahead of what’s about to happen.
She tosses a bundle of resistance bands onto the top of the stack like it’s nothing, like the whole thing isn’t already leaning forward under its own weight.
