“We’ve been tracking his development. There’s been… buzz.”
“Buzz,” I repeat.
He smiles faintly. “Sometimes media attention doesn’t hurt. Visibility at this stage can accelerate things.”
There it is again.Visibility.
I keep my expression neutral. “He’s been working hard, and he earned it.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ian says quickly. “Talent speaks first. The rest just amplifies.”
Amplifies.
“Anyway,” he continues, looking at the screens as the next skater takes the ice, “would love to chat with you and Rodrigo this week if you have a moment. Here is my card.”
I thank him politely and promise to follow up.
When he walks away, I let my gaze drift back up to the commentary desk.
Isabella is mid-sentence now, composed, analytical, her voice likely steady and precise through the speakers. She gestures lightly with one hand as she speaks, emphasizing something technical. From here, she looks untouchable.
Powerful.
For the first time all morning, a thin thread of unease slides beneath my ribs.
Rodrigo earned that skate, and whatever conversations are going to happen because of it.
But the world is already attaching other meanings to it.
I fold my arms against the barrier again and keep my eyes on the ice, even as I feel the weight of everything that isn’t being said hang quietly between the boards.
CHAPTER 24
ISABELLA
The headsetalways leaves a faint ache behind my ears, no matter how I adjust it or how I wear it.
By the time the final skater clears the ice and the producer signals cut, I’m already reaching up to slide it off. The rink doesn't get quiet when the broadcast ends. If anything, the noise swells—blades scraping across the ice, recruiters calling out names, the muted chatter of parents and coaches clustering along the boards.
“Great segment,” the producer says, leaning across the desk to gather his notes. “Your breakdown of that combination was spot-on.”
I nod, half listening, and glance back down at the ice.
Rodrigo is standing near the bench, still flushed from his program. Even from here I can see the loose electricity in his posture—the adrenaline that hasn’t quite burned off yet. A man in a red jacket is talking to him, one hand gesturing towards the stands where a group of college banners hangs along the boards.
Recruiters move quickly after skates like that.
It’s the same pattern every time. Someone lands a clean program, the room recalibrates around them, and suddenly there are conversations happening in corners that didn’t exist ten minutes earlier.
“What do you think?” John Alvarez, my commentating partner, asks, tapping the table lightly with his pen. “Kid’s got something.”
“He does,” I reply.
Across the rink, Cecilia stands at the boards with her arms folded against the barrier. From this distance she looks completely still, the way good coaches often do when they’re tracking every detail at once. She isn’t speaking or inserting herself into the conversation around Rodrigo, but instead she’s letting him enjoy the spotlight.
She’s watching.
John follows my gaze. “Is that his coach?”
