Page 83 of Ice Princesses
“Isabella,” my mother says, her gaze lifting to meet mine, steady and expectant. It makes me feel less like she’s greeting me and more like she’s acknowledging me.
“Hi,” I say, a soft, casual smile on my face. It’s the most I can offer them. “Where’s Nina?”
“Not here tonight,” she replies, placing her glass in front of her and folding her hands on her lap.
I take my usual seat across from her. The table is set butuntouched. Plates, silverware, and glasses filled but not yet used, except for my mother’s. It’s a familiar choreography—the illusion of dinner when in reality this is about something else.
My father ends his call and joins us, folding himself into the chair beside her with the same composed ease he’s carried my entire life. He doesn’t speak immediately. Neither of them does.
Instead, they let the quiet settle, stretch just long enough to create space for whatever this is meant to become.
Growing up, I used to rush to fill it.
“We’ve been following your work this summer,” my mother says finally, her voice smooth, almost conversational. “The program you’ve been involved in.”
Ascend.
She doesn’t say the name.
I nod once, resting my hands loosely in my lap, matching her. “It’s been productive.”
“Productive,” she repeats, as if testing the word for fit. Her gaze drifts briefly to the window, then back to me. “That’s an interesting way to describe it.”
There’s no edge to her tone yet. It reads more like curiosity, carefully measured.
My father leans back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along the table, his attention fixed on me. It’s an evaluation.
“It’s drawn a fair amount of attention, Princess,” he says. “Though perhaps not in the way one would expect, given your position.”
I let that sit for a moment, considering the shape of it.
“My position,” I echo lightly.
My mother’s lips curve ever so slightly.
“You’ve spent years building a presence in our sport,” she says. “Access, recognition, credibility. There are very few paths you haven’t already opened for yourself.”
I know where this is going. I’ve known since I walked through the massive wooden door.
“And yet,” she continues, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass in a slow, absent motion, “you’ve chosen to invest your time and money into something that operates mostly outside the spotlight.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “It’s not about visibility.”
My father’s gaze sharpens just enough to register.
“No,” he agrees, almost thoughtfully. “That’s precisely what concerns us.”
A small silence follows, heavier this time, settling into the space between us like something that’s been waiting to be acknowledged.
“You’re stepping away from a trajectory that was—by any reasonable measure—very clear,” he continues. “The association has been receptive. There have been conversations.”
Conversations that they’ve had, behind closed doors, in a careful climb in pursuit of what they consider power and acceptability.
“You’ve been given access to rooms most people spend their entire careers trying to enter,” my mother adds, her tone still even and calm. “And instead of consolidating that, you’re dispersing your efforts.”
As if what Nina and I are building is a dilution or a failure to capitalize on something.
I exhale slowly, my gaze drifting for a moment to the sideboard, to a photograph I’ve seen a hundred times and never really looked at. My parents on the ice, frozen mid-performance, lines perfect. The image of control captured and preserved for eternity.
