That’s my first thought, unfair and automatic. As if time should punish her for having what she had.
I retired before she did. We did our last seasons in parallel lines that never fully crossed, and then mine ended in a quiet fade and hers ended in a final burst of applause and a shiny gold medal.
After that, I lost track of her. She was still around, I’m sure, in the way this sport likes to keep its familiar faces nearby. Supporting Team USA athletes and attending functions, maybe at some of the Worlds and possibly commentating during the Winter Olympics.
Isabella is standing with a small orbit of people around her: two stocky men in suits, several inches shorter than her, and a woman holding a stack of papers and scrolling on her phone. There’s a gaggle of teenage girls across the hall, leaning against a wall and recording everything on their phones, giggling and whispering in each others’ ears.
But she’s not paying those people attention.
She’s not doing anything, actually. Just standing there with a smile on her face. And still, everything adjusts around her.
Her gaze is on my skater, whose grin is exploding. Rodrigo bounces slightly on his guards, like he might levitate if his legs weren’t as heavy as lead, especially after the long session he just had. “Ceci,” he whispers, “she’s literally right there.”
“I see her,” I say.
My voice is calm. My pulse is not.
Isabella’s eyes shift to mine for a second, quick and assessing, then slide back to Rodrigo, like he’s the point of this moment—until her attention returns to me.
“Do you think she saw me?” Rodrigo whispers.
She holds my gaze like she’s confirming something. Like she’s deciding whether I’m who she thinks I am.
The corridor keeps moving around us. People pass and a group of boys laugh loudly behind us. The sound of blades on ice filters faintly through the walls.
Rodrigo, completely oblivious to the undercurrent, leans closer to me. “Should I say hi?” he asks, breathless. “Should I ask for a picture? Not, like, now, but?—”
“No,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
He flinches, then tries to hide it. “Oh.”
I soften immediately because he doesn’t deserve my reaction. He’s just a kid who grew up watching videos of the people who had resources and cameras and choreographers flown in for a weekend.
“Not because of you,” I say, quieter. “Because it’s warm-ups. Because we’re working. I’m sure you’ll have an opportunity at a later time.”
Rodrigo nods like he understands. He doesn’t, not fully at least. He’s never had to live inside the politics of all of this.
I turn back to the schedule board as if my attention belongs there. Then a man passes behind her and says, too loud, too pleased with himself, “Princess.”
And I feel the way she stiffens before I turn my head slightly to look at her. It’s quick, almost invisible. A slight lock through her shoulders, a tightening in her jaw that she smooths out with a smile before anyone can clock it. But I see her reaction to that designation.
And for one ridiculous second, I almost enjoy it.
Rodrigo hears it, too, and his eyes go impossibly wider. “They really call her that to her face,” he murmurs, like it’s sacred.
I swallow. “It’s marketing,” I say.
Rodrigo grins. “It’s iconic.”
“It’s annoying,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
Rodrigo doesn’t catch that. Or he pretends not to, because he’s learned when to let me have my moods without making it a thing. He studies the board again and says, “Okay. So. Later later.”
“Yes,” I say.
“And then tonight there’s…” He trails off, scanning the paper lower down, then points. “Reception.”
I glance where he’s pointing.
