I reach for one of the bundles of bands that fell with the mats and our arms brush, light and electric.
I glance at her.
“Stop being mean to me,” I say with a smile.
“No,” she replies immediately.
There’s no hesitation. No softening. And her expression makes me grin.
“Because you’re already very hot,” I continue, hooking a band on the wall where they are all arranged by color, “and the meaner you are, the worse it gets.”
That makes her turn.
Slowly this time, like she’s deciding whether to engage with it or shut it down completely. Cecilia opens her mouth once, then closes it. Her eyes do something funny. It’s a mix of widening and narrowing at the same time, and it makes her look absolutely disjointed.
“Sounds like a you problem,”she finally says.
“Oh, it absolutely is.”
She studies me for a second longer than necessary, like she’s trying to place me somewhere that makes sense.
“Okay, then,” she says with an exhale, and this time there’s something softer in it, something that feels dangerously close to amusement.
Outside the storage closet, someone is rolling a cart and the noise from the rink bleeds faintly through the walls—music, voices, the dull rhythm of movement on ice.
She pushes the door open and steps into the hallway. “I’ll see you later, Isabella.”
I follow, because of course I do.
CHAPTER 12
CECILIA
“What can I get you, honey?”
I don’t like the way he says it. The bartender is older than I expected, thick forearms braced on the counter as he leans in too close, eyes lingering where they don’t belong before dragging themselves back up to my face. His smile is practiced, casual enough I assume he gets away with it, but I let it slide because I just want to have a drink and food that doesn’t come from a cafeteria.
“Beer,” I say flatly. “Whatever’s local and on tap. And maybe the steak salad?”
He hums, still looking, taking an extra second before straightening. “You got it.”
I track his movement in the mirror behind the bar as he walks away, irritation tightening low in my chest, rooted less in him personally and more in how often this sort of thing happens when women are alone in places like this.
Normally, I would say something, but today I’m tired andI don’t feel like expending energy reminding strangers that I’m not scenery.
I adjust myself on the chair and angle my body slightly away from the counter, more out of habit than fear, then glance down at my phone and pretend I’m busy while I wait.
Rodrigo texted earlier to say they’d all decided on pizza somewhere else, and I acted like it didn’t bother me as much as it did. I like having him around. I like knowing where he is. But I tell myself this is healthy independence, especially for a coach-athlete relationship.
My food and drink arrive and I eat slowly, one hand around my glass, watching the bartender move with naturality. This is the part of this program that no one warned me about—the hours between responsibilities, when the adrenaline drains out and leaves you with yourself and your whirring thoughts.
I don’t expect to see Isabella. Which is probably why I notice her immediately.
She’s at a table near the back with Nina and those same federation reps from this morning, jackets draped over chairs, menus spread out and drinks already condensing on the tabletop. She looks different outside the training center grounds, less formal but no less composed, a dark, long-sleeved dress hugging her lithe body. Her posture is relaxed, but there’s still that unmistakable tension through her core, the same I see in skaters who have had to learn how to control every muscle in their bodies because the sport asks them to.
I look away before she can catch me.
I finish half my salad and most of my drink,and I can hear how the conversation at her table is growing louder and more animated. Isabella and Nina are laughing, leaning back in their chairs with their eyes closed.
