“That’s not how this works,” I reply.
He tilts his head slightly, considering it. His eyes are still closed, and his body is angled towards the street. One of his hands is still on the cat, petting soft circles at the base of the animal’s head, almost absentmindedly.
“Isn’t it?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is, I’ve never had to think about it this way before.
My role has always been clear. Defined by what happens on the ice and how I get him there. He’s also the first athlete I’ve coached, so there is no precedent on how to do this, at all. But so far, things have been linear with him and his career.
Now, for the first time, that line feels less stable. I’m not the only one who sees it anymore. There are so many people watching him now. I think briefly of Isabella. Of the way she moves through those conversations like she’s already ten steps ahead of them.
“You need to think about what’s best for you,” I say finally. “Maybe talk to Isabella about it, too.”
That stops him. “What?”
“About your options.” I lift my shoulder in the most casual way I can muster. “She knows how this works from the inside.”
“I—” He watches me for a second, something in his expression tightening just slightly. “I don’t know about that.”
“Your options might not include me, Rodri. And that’s fine.”
“Or they might.”
The simplicity of those words, of the way he sees this, sits heavier than it should.
Isabella’s cat shifts in my lap, stretching, completely indifferent to the direction of the conversation. I focus on that instead, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the grounding weight of him on my legs.
Rodrigo leans back again, quieter now.
“You’ve been saying you’ll figure it out,” he says after a moment. “But it feels like you’re waiting for something to happen instead.”
The words are gentle. The meaning is not.
“I’ve always figured it out,” I say. I look out towards the street, letting the silence stretch between us.
“I know,” he replies. “I’m just not sure that’s the same thing as making a choice.”
CHAPTER 30
CECILIA
“Okay, you weirdo,”I mumble into the cat’s soft fur. “Let’s take you back to your house.”
The conversation with Rodrigo eventually shifted to more neutral territory—ice times, some of the drills we have planned for the week, and the activities that Nina put together for the rest of the month before we have to head back home to prepare for the next championship in September. Eventually, one of the other skaters came to find him and dragged him along, an apologetic look on his face at the idea of me spending the evening alone with a cat.
Natalie Portman is still in my arms, heavier now that he’s decided I’m a perfectly acceptable mode of transportation. His head rests against my forearm, completely unbothered by the fact that I walked in the wrong direction for at least six blocks, realizing with a lot of embarrassment that I was in front of the rink and not on the other side of town.
I could turn back. Or just drop him off at the front door and text Isabella that her cat is out. Keep things wherethey’ve been—contained and manageable. A safe, professional distance despite the natural pull and the kissing and whatever the fuck else is happening.
Her house, obviously, looks the same as it did the last time I was here. Clean lines. Light on in the kitchen. A quiet kind of order that feels intentional without being rigid.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, the cat stretching slightly in my arms like he’s reminding me why I’m here in the first place.
“Okay,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, and then I knock.
It takes a few seconds.
