Page 64 of Ice Princesses
“Oh,” I echo, unable to stop smiling. I feel it before I think it: the urge to praise her and touch her and have her stay right next to me forever. I also realize, a moment too late, that I was supposed to be sweeping the ice, directing the stone to the house.
It drifts forward, slow and dignified, until it settles somewhere vaguely near the target. Nina throws both hands in the air and groans, resting her forehead on Rafael’s shoulder as he laughs and says something directed only at her.
“Beginner’s luck!” she shouts, but rolls her eyes with a big smile on her face.
Cecilia straightens carefully, brushing her palms together, trying very hard to look unimpressed with herself. It doesn’t work. There’s a spark in her eyes—bright, competitive,alive—that I recognize immediately. It’s the same expression she gets rinkside when Rodrigo executes something difficult with very little practice.
“I’m an athlete!” she says, turning to me. “That was easy.”
“Of course, Ceci,” I reply. A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it—fond and a little smug, because she looks so pleased with herself and doesn’t even realize it. I let her have it, nodding once like this was inevitable all along.
Nina goes next, rolling her neck once like she’s about to enter a championship round instead of a Thursday night league with the elderly locals and a cold beer on a table six feet away.
“Watch and learn,” she announces, pointing her broom at Rafael. “And sweep when I tell you to.”
Rafael salutes lazily but is already gliding into position.
Nina pushes off cleanly—lower and smoother than anything I’ve ever seen before—and the stone takes off down the sheet with surprising speed.
“Hard!” she yells immediately. “Harder. Harder. Don’t you dare let that curl?—”
Rafael drops into a frantic sweep, brushing in front of the stone with exaggerated intensity.
“Harder!” Nina shouts again, and the word echoes across the club, drawing a few chuckles and head shakes from the adjacent sheet.
Cecilia makes a strangled sound beside me. “Oh my god.”
The stone glides beautifully into the house, settling inthe exact center of the target. Nina throws both arms up in triumph.
“That’s how it’s done,” she declares, completely unbothered by the double meaning she just broadcast to half the club.
Rafael straightens slowly, breathing harder than necessary, and looks at her with a grin that is equal parts competitive and something else entirely.
Cecilia leans slightly into my shoulder. “I see why you dragged me here,” she murmurs.
I don’t look at her right away. “For the athleticism?”
I feel her smile a moment later.
The small bar overlooking the ice is warmer, and the air is thick with fryer oil and beer and something else. Maybe decades’ worth of stale air. From up here, the game Nina and Rafael are still playing looks almost orderly—stones gliding in clean arcs, brooms moving in effortless bursts—but the noise carries in uneven waves. Shouting. Laughter. The scrape of fabric against pebbled ice.
I order fried pickles and a beer, and Cecilia watches me closely as the plate arrives, steaming hot and smelling delicious.
“Oh no,” she says, studying the breaded green disks.
“They’re delicious,” I reply, feigning offense.
She lifts one cautiously, the steam curling between her fingers, and takes a tentative bite. Her expressionrearranges itself in stages—skepticism, then surprise, then reluctant acceptance.
“I don’t understand the obsession with pickles. They are literally sour cucumbers.”
“Ceci.”
“They’re… fine,” she concedes.
I don’t hide my smile this time. “That’s practically a love letter from you.”
She rolls her eyes but reaches for another, settling back in her chair. She hooks her leg on my chair and drags it a little closer to her, a mischievous smile on her lips. She’s relaxed, and her shoulders are looser than I’ve ever seen them. The light catches in her hair differently here, warmer, less severe.
