Page 40 of Ice Princesses
Not anger nor accusation. Something colder.
Ownership.
“I’m not including anyone yet,” I say. “It’s just me and Nina.”
My mother scoffs, and Nina lifts her head to look at her, that brief, familiar pause where she decides how much of herself to offer, if this is worth a fight or not.
“Small things become large things when handled properly,” my father says. “Especially when attached to our name.”
Attached toourname. Not mine. Theirs, is what he’s saying.
I lean back in my chair. I can feel the old reflex rising—explain, justify, smooth. I swallow it down.
“This isn’t about branding, Dad,” I say carefully. “It’s about developing athletes who have a ton of potential and not enough resources to do so.”
My mother’s expression shifts to something that I can only describe as pleasant, but sharpened. “Yes, resources.”
“I have resources,” I say, tilting my head to the side. Nina’s eyes are ping-ponging between us, not interrupting the conversation but also somewhat acting as a witnessbetween us. She’s always had this… sort of power over our interactions, almost like a neutral mediator who grounded us.
“Yes,” my father agrees with me. He lifts one of the papers off the desk and studies it with forced nonchalance. But nothing with my parents is casual. “Because of us.”
The door behind them is still open.
I don’t look towards it at first; I don’t need to. But I hear a small gasp and feel a presence.
A stillness that doesn’t belong to my parents.
Cecilia.
She must have come to drop off the updated training schedules. Or the paperwork I asked her to review this morning. Or something mundane and professional.
Instead, she’s standing just outside the threshold, witnessing this.
Good. Let her hear.
“This is not an association project,” I say, voice steady. “And it’s not a campaign.”
My father’s brow lifts slightly. “Campaign?”
“For presidency,” I say plainly. But the reality is that I want to scream at them.
Silence.
My mother exhales through her nose. “It would be foolish not to consider it.”
“It would be premature,” I reply.And I’m not interested.
“Princess,” my father counters. “It would be strategic, and you know it. You have credibility, visibility, respect. And Armand’s term is ending in two years.”
“And?”
“And you could shape policy instead of critiquing it from the sidelines,” my mother says. Nina’s face snaps to mine and she raises one eyebrow.
The word sidelines feels deliberate. Controlled. Chosen. As if what I’m building is a hobby.
Sidelines.
Because development is decorative, it seems. And proximity to power matters more than proximity to the work and the actual athletes.
