She’s close enough that I can smell citrus on hersweatshirt, close enough that my body reacts before my brain can remind it to behave.
“Most people here would,” I say.
“Yes,” she agrees easily. “They would.”
There’s a pause, and the tone shift is evident. We’re not talking about skating anymore.
“You’re mad at me,” she says, quietly. I’m not entirely sure if she means it as a question or a statement.
I blink without looking at her. “No.”
She tilts her head, clearly unconvinced. I swear I hallucinate the faintest twitch of her lips. And then I shake my head, because it must be the altitude.
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“‘No’ is a full sentence, Isabella,” I say, still not meeting her gaze. “I’m not mad.”
Her mouth curves slightly before she reins it in.
“Cecilia—”
“We shouldn’t talk about this here.”
Her gaze sweeps the field, to the kids, the trainers, the staff drifting in and out of earshot.
“That’s fair.”
We stand there, both pretending we’re focused on athletes.
“I didn’t plan that,” she says, low enough that only I can hear.
“I know.”
“I also don’t regret it.”
I shift my stance, grounding myself through my shoes into the even turf. “That’s not… helping.”
“No,” she agrees. “Ifigured.”
I finally look at her properly then.
She isn’t smiling, like usual. She looks serious. Careful.
I watch Rodrigo finish his run and signal Katia, my brain doing that infuriating split thing where half of me is coaching and the other half is cataloguing how Isabella hasn’t moved an inch closer, like she’s letting me control the distance.
Which only makes me more aware of it.
“This is risky,” I say.
“Yes.” She scans the field and lifts her head slightly when the therapist catches her eye.
“You’re the boss.”
She exhales. “In a way. But not of you.”
“I don’t like feeling like I walked into something I didn’t agree to,” I add, but internally I’m slapping myself. I have no idea where this conversation is heading, and what the outcome after all these words are said will be.
Her voice stays even and bubbly. “Did you?”