For a second, I forget how to breathe. The way she says it—quiet, certain, like the thought slipped out before she could stop herself.
My brain offers several responsible responses.
None of them survive the look on her face.
Cecilia isn’t smiling, but instead is studying me with those brown eyes, the way she studies the ice and her athlete. This woman, who has spent weeks keeping a careful, professional distance between us, just called me hot in the middle of a rink full of our peers.
My pulse does something incredibly unhelpful.
I lean a little closer, so no one else can hear, and smile.
“My office,” I say quietly, just for her.
“Lead the way, Princess.”
CHAPTER 25
CECILIA
The problemwith Isabella Pierce is that she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I realize this halfway down the corridor that runs behind the rink, following the quiet click of her shoes on the rubber flooring while the noise of the arena fades behind us.
She didn’t raise her voice or turn the interaction into a scene.
She simply redirected the entire conversation in front of aHarvardrecruiter, a handful of coaches to the side, and god knows how many people within earshot—and she did it in a way that left no room for misunderstanding.
Hiscoachbuilt that program.
I’ve spent most of my career fighting for that exact type of visibility, whether as a skater or now as a coach. And Isabella Pierce, no less, just handed it to me like it was obvious.
Volunteers move past us with clipboards and discardedjackets, preparing for the next discipline on the ice. No one stops her or even questions her where she’s going.
They step aside automatically.
Power does that.Shedoes that.
She pushes open a side door, and we slip into another corridor that leads deeper into the administrative wing of the building. The sounds of the rink dull to a distant echo now—music and the occasional burst of laughter from a group of kids bleeding faintly through the walls.
I should say something.
Something professional or controlled. Take back that word vomit that just came out of my mouth because I had a second to doubt myself.
Instead, I’m thinking about the way she stood at the boards ten minutes ago and erased her own last name from the story.
Fuck.
I meant it professionally, mostly.
The problem with me is that I’m not entirely sure that’s exactly what it was.
Isabella slows in front of me, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure I’m still following.
That’s when I remember the other very inconvenient detail in all of this. She’s beautiful and hot and loves to be in control.
Not the polished, televised way that people usually talk about when they mention her and her career. That part is obvious.
What’s dangerous is the rest of it.
