“Shit, are you seriously going to get on the Zamboni?”
I follow more slowly, adjusting to the quiet and the dim lights, to the way this particular rink feels completely different without anyone else in it.
She moves in wide, lazy circles, not performing, just… gliding. It’s the only word I can use to describe it.
And there’s no tension in her body, none of the sharp precision I’ve gotten used to watching from the boards. Just movement for the sake of it, full of joy, like she’s rediscovering something she’s abandoned along the way.
“Are you coming?” she calls, glancing back at me over her shoulder, already halfway to the far end of the rink. “Or are you chicken?”
“I am coming,” I reply, taking a few tentative steps and immediately regretting it as my shoes slide on the cold surface. “This feels like a terrible idea. We can go get our skates.”
“Where’s the fun in that, Ceci?” she asks, not slowing down in the slightest. “You’ll be fine.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Princess.”
She laughs, the sound echoing softly in the empty space, and by the time I catch up to her, she’s already leaning into the Zamboni garage, scanning the driver’s seat and the controls on the dashboard.
“Isabella—”
“Tell me you’ve never wanted to drive one of these.”
“I have literally never thought about it.”
“That’s such a lie,” she says with a laugh, and hops onto the seat.
“It’s not.”
She putzes around for a bit, then hops off and heads to a small desk in the corner. She opens one drawer, then another, growing visibly more annoyed when nothing turns up.
“They have to be here somewhere,” she mutters.
“Or,” I offer, leaning against the doorway, “they’re stored somewhere secure because you run a professional facility.”
She ignores me, checks one last spot, then exhales.
“Okay. Fine. We abandon this plan.”
“Tragic.”
There’s a beat, the quiet settling back in around us.
“Let’s go raid the concession stand.”
CHAPTER 33
ISABELLA
I crouchto check the mini fridge, then straighten with two beer bottles in hand. The small, disproportionate satisfaction of this lodges low in my chest, as if I’ve accomplished something meaningful simply by choosing not to follow the structure that usually defines everything I do.
“This feels illegal,” Cecilia says.
“It’s definitely not illegal,” I reply, grabbing a few bags of chips and tossing them across to her. She’s leaning against the bar on the other side of the opening, forearms resting on the granite countertop we installed last year. She is, quite literally, a dream. Standing in front of me in the dark, hair down and posture relaxed. “I have keys, remember?”
“You keep saying that like it makes it less weird, Princess.”
The nickname makes my whole body shiver. And the rest? She’s not wrong. Because being employed at this facility doesn’t actually make this feel like we’re getting away with it, and maybe that’s the point.
“It doesn’t,” I admit. “But I like it.”
