“He’s excited,” she says with a smile. “He’s a kid. He’s looking at the rafters like the banners are speaking to him.” Her expression sharpens. “She’s looking at the exits.”
It’s an uncomfortable image, what Nina is implying.
“Okay,” I say, because it’s the only neutral word I have.
“Armand is already here,” Nina adds, like she’s dropping a weight onto the desk. I glance at the calendar block on my computer. “And two others. They’re sniffing around.”
The president of the International Skating Association is a politician first and has probably never put on an ice skate in his life. Armand Paulsen is the kind of man who can smile while he takes something from you. He doesn’t have to be loud. He just has to be in the room and open his mouth for things to magically happen in the sport.
I stare at the binder again. The pages don’t move and the words don’t change.
“Okay.” I stand, pushing my chair back quietly. I smooth my blazer because my hands need something to do. I’ve been smoothing fabric my whole life, it seems. “Let’s head to rink two.”
CHAPTER 3
CECILIA
Rodrigo skatesoff the ice huffing and puffing, and I can sense the whine incoming because the session is over. This is one of my favorite things about him—he wants to act like a man, but he’s still a kid and finds so much joy in this it’s impossible not to feel it.
His guards are only halfway on, laces loose, and he’s talking before this breath even settles. “Did you see the second Axel? The one in the corner? I had it. I had it.”
“You had the first one,” I say, matching his pace down the hallway because if I don’t, he’ll sprint straight into the lobby and disappear into the crowd of people. “The second one was…”
He huffs a laugh and bumps my shoulder with his. He’s damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, hair flattened at the temples. Seventeen looks like this: too much energy, too much emotion, and a body that doesn’t understand moderation yet.
“I was fine,” heinsists.
“Mhm.” I lift my eyebrows. “You popped it.”
“I was marking.”
“That wasn’t marking,” I say. “That was you deciding that physics is optional. And what’s the first rule in figure skating?”
He groans, dramatic as always. “Te odio.”
“Me amás.”
He shoots me the look he always does when I call him on his own bullshit, and it’s so familiar it almost makes me forget where we are. Not home, not in our rink. Not in our corner of the world where people know his name and pronounce it correctly.
Here, everything is bigger and shinier and colder. Even the hallway feels like it has strict rules.
Rodrigo tugs at his sleeves, fiddling with them in the most impatient way. “What time is the next practice again?”
I stop in front of the schedule board and scan it. The paper is taped up crooked, like someone’s printed it last minute and then got called away immediately. Groups, time slots, locations. The whole thing is, as always, a suggestion. But I like to stick to it regardless, maximize our ice time as much as possible, especially in facilities like this one.
“You’re group B,” I tell him. “Después.”
“How much later?”
“Later later.”
He makes a face like I’m personally responsible for the time slots and for the misery that waiting a few hours—hours he needs to rest and recharge and probably eat—will cause him. “But I feel good now. Can I go now?”
“You feel good because you’re still riding the adrenalineof getting here,” I say, tapping the board with my finger. “You’re going to feel different tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after, especially as your training intensifies.”
Rodrigo’s shoulders drop a little, not because he agrees, but because he hears the truth in it.
He leans closer to the bulletin board anyway, scanning for his name like it might disappear. “Okay,” he says, pretending calm. “And… where’s the next session? The fancy rink?”
