I keep my voice light enough and my smile plastered on my face so that it doesn't turn into a scene, but clear enough that he has to hear the correction.
“Rodrigo is getting attention because of his technical skills,” I continue. “And because his coach has done an extraordinary job with him.”
The recruiter’s eyes shift, finally acknowledging Cecilia standingbeside me.
For the first time since he walked up, he seems to register that she’s standing here.
“Oh,” he says, readjusting. “Of course. Absolutely.”
Cecilia doesn’t rescue him. She doesn’t step in to smooth it over. She just stands there with her arms folded, expression unreadable, watching him work to catch up.
I decide not to let him.
“Cecilia Montenegro,” I say, turning fully towards her even though he’s the one who approached us. “She’s the reason Rodrigo thinks on the ice instead of just checking off every element.”
The recruiter gives a quick nod, embarrassed now by how obvious his oversight was.
“Yes, well,” he says, recovering, “that definitely shows. We’re always looking for athletes with strong coaching foundations.”
Strong coaching foundations.
A phrase designed to sound respectful while still centering the athlete as the product.
Cecilia’s jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. If I weren’t looking directly at her, I might have missed it.
“He has more than that, Chad,” I say. “He has a coach who knows exactly what he needs when he needs it.”
It takes the recruiter half a second to understand what I’m doing. By then, the point has already been made.
He laughs lightly, uncertain. “Well. Then clearly he’s in excellent hands.”
“Yes,” I say.
The silence that follows is brief but pointed.
He clears his throat and glances back to the cluster ofcollege staff near the tunnel. “Anyway, I hope we get a chance to connect later.”
“With Rodrigo and Cecilia,” I say.
That one I don’t soften. I don’t even care that this guy is from Harvard.
His eyes flick between us again.
“Of course,” he says. “Naturally.”
He offers a final smile, one that looks more careful than the first, and walks off.
The moment he’s out of earshot, the noise of the rink rushes back in around us. There’s a whistle from the far end. Someone calling for a music cut, the scrape of a chair elsewhere. Overhead, the speakers crackle and settle.
Beside me, Cecilia stays very still.
I don’t look at her immediately. I’m suddenly very aware of my own pulse in a way that feels adolescent and deeply inconvenient. Not because I said anything remarkable. Because I chose to say what I said in front of her.
And she heard me.
Rodrigo laughs across the bench area, still glowing from the skate and whatever conversation is happening around him. He turns halfway towards us as if he might come back, then gets caught again by someone else and stays where he is, nodding along to whatever is being said.
“Jesus, Isabella,” Cecilia says, her voice gravelly and low, just for me. “That was so hot.”
