She nods once. A pause. Then, almost casually, “Must be nice having momentum around him this season.”
I turn my head slightly. “Momentum?”
“You know.” A small shrug. “Visibility.”
I keep my gaze on the ice, but the word lodges somewhere unpleasant in my chest. It makes it sound harmless, like good lighting in a photograph. But in skating circles it rarely means what people pretend it means. What she is saying is that she knows that someone important noticed Rodrigo, and that they decided he was worth the attention.
Rodrigo has earned every jump he’s landing out there. Every clean exit. Every edge he’s learned to trust.
Still, I can already feel the narrative forming around him, even though there’s nothing sharp in her voice. No accusation, simply an observation of my skater, his ability, and the access we’ve gotten.
I nod as if I understand exactly what she means.
On the far side of the rink, elevated slightly above the boards, the commentary desk is already set up. I see her before I mean to.
Isabella stands with a headset around her neck, one hand resting lightly on the table as she listens to someone off to the side. She’s dressed for the broadcast—structured blazer, clean lines, hair pulled back so that it looks effortless when it definitely isn’t. She laughs at something the producer says, head tipping back just so, and the movement is so familiar it almost knocks the air out of me.
It’s annoying how attractive it is watching her be good at this.
She doesn’t look towards me. Not once.
Rodrigo sets up for his combination, and I drag my focus back to the ice, counting rotations in my head, tracking his axis, his timing, the precise second his blade bites. He lands it solidly, a fraction tighter than yesterday but controlled. I exhale without realizing I was holding my breath.
“Bien,” I murmur, though he can’t hear me from this distance.
The warm-ups end and skaters file off. The stands fill in slowly, parents and recruiters and a handful of local spectators settling into seats with paper programs folded neatly in their laps.
Rodrigo bumps his shoulder lightly against mine on his way to the bench.
“I’ve got this,” he says.
“Absolutely you do.”
I adjust the collar of his jacket anyway, smoothing fabric that doesn’t need smoothing. A grounding touch. For him. For me.
When his name is called, he steps onto the ice like it belongs to him.
There’s a specific type of quiet that falls over any rink when things are going well. It’s not silence. It’s attention. The first jump is clean, the landing cushioned and sure. The combination snaps into place with the kind of timing that is not taught but cultivated instead. His step sequence is sharper than it was a month ago, transitions deeper, edges more deliberate.
He’s claiming this, despite his doubts.
I track everything—the way his free leg extends on the spin, the micro-adjustment before the flip, the control in his exit.By the time he hits his final pose, the applause is already building.
He doesn’t look at the stands first.
He looks at me.
Not for validation. For confirmation.
I nod once.
As he steps off the ice, flushed and breathing hard, a man in a navy jacket with a college logo stitched over the chest approaches before I can intercept.
“Coach,” he says, offering his hand. “Ian Taylor, University of Michigan. Impressive skate.”
“Thank you.”
He glances towards Rodrigo, who is laughing with another skater, then back at me.
