Page 33 of Ice Princesses
The shift is immediate.
“Cecilia—”
The mats start to slide. Not slowly or in a way that can becorrected quickly with a swift move of the wrist. The entire stack gives out at once, folding forward in a soft, inevitable collapse.
She reaches for them on instinct, which only redirects the fall towards me.
I barely have time to adjust my grip on the crate full of cones before the first mat hits my shoulder, the second catches my arm, and the rest follow, pinning me back into the shelf in a very inconvenient and slightly painful way, and effectively trapping me in a tight space with dirty equipment. My ass on the cold concrete floor.
There’s a pause. And then she laughs.
It’s quick. Unfiltered. And it slips out before she has time to control it, I think. My belly swoops immediately and the feeling feels incredibly disproportionate to what is happening right now.
Because I’ve seen Cecilia smile. I’ve seen the restrained version of it, the polite version, the one she gives to Rodrigo like it’s their own form of currency.
And this isn’t it. This is easier, lighter. Entirely unguarded for half a second.
“Don’t,” I say, still partially pinned under a mat. I’m still holding the crate with my hands but have no idea where to put it.
Cecilia exhales, trying to rein it back in, but I can see the amusement at the edges of her mouth. “I told you to move.”
“You did not,” I say with a gasp, and it makes me sound indignant when it really isn’t that big of a deal.
“I implied it.”
“With what? Your brain? I’m amazing at a lot of things, but I cannot read minds, you know?”
“God,Princess,you’re so dramatic.”
I still for half a second because that name people are so intent on calling me throws me completely off balance when it comes from her lips. It’s not the word itself; I’ve heard it my entire life—polished, rehearsed, handed to me like something I should be grateful for.
But my body reacts anyway. Heat rises, low and immediate, settling somewhere I’d rather ignore.
She crouches in front of me, pulling one of the mats off with more effort than she expected, and I take the opportunity to adjust my posture, pushing the rest with my knees and sliding sideways. We both reach for the same one at the same time, and our hands land on it together.
We pause. Cecilia’s hand is warm, steady, and she’s close enough that I can see the small shift in her expression when she realizes we’re not moving.
Her hair has come loose around her face, a few blonde strands stuck to her cheek, and she doesn’t fix it. I don’t move my hand either, which feels like a decision I’m making in real time and not entirely thinking through. And it tracks so much with how she makes me react to her when she’s close to me. Like my body just decides what it wants and gets it, immediately.
She pulls the mat free first, breaking whatever that moment was before it can settle into something more complicated.
“Get up,” she instructs, standing.
“Yes, Coach.”
“That’s not what I—” she says, but I catch her reaction. A stutter in her breath, and a quick flutter of her eyes.
“I know.” I wink, because I can and it’s fun and flirty, and I have her all to myself here.
I push myself to my feet, brushing my hands down my legs more out of habit than necessity. She’s already restacking the mats, slower and more deliberate.
I grab the crate again and slide it onto the top shelf.
“Stop slamming things,” she gripes, without looking at me.
“I’m just putting things where they go.”
She shakes her head, but there’s no real bite to it anymore.
