Page 86 of Ice Princesses
“I talked to someone earlier,” he says.
There’s a hesitation in it that wasn’t there a minute ago. I nod once, still focused on my melting ice cream, even though I’m not really paying attention to it anymore.
“Okay.”
“A coach,” he adds, like he needs to clarify. “And—therewas a scout on the call, too. From Michigan. I think? Or something like that. Maybe Minnesota.”
He huffs a small breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t do anything to calm him.
“I don’t know,” he says. “There were a few people.”
Now I look at him.
He’s not looking back. His gaze is fixed somewhere out on the street, but it’s not really there. I’ve seen that look before—right before a program, right after a mistake, or in the quiet seconds where he’s deciding what something means for him.
“That’s really wonderful, Rodri,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat, and it takes him a full minute to turn to me.
“I didn’t think that would happen to me,” he says, softer now.
My first instinct is to recoil. Because I’ve been watching it happen. The way people have started lingering a little longer after his sessions. The way other athletes bring him up consistently. The shift from potential to something that feels closer to expectation. Something that is earned.
“It makes sense,” I say.
He lets out a small breath, his fingers stilling briefly before starting again.
“Maybe,” he says and shakes his head slightly. “I just?—”
I lean back slightly, letting my weight settle into the concrete, giving myself a second before I respond.
“I thought I’d have more time before I had to figure anything out.”
“You don’t have to make any decisions now,” I say. “You first have to get to the Olympics.”
Rodrigo lets out a laugh—short at first, almost surprised, like it slipped out before he could stop it. Then it builds, his shoulders loosening as his head drops forward.
“Right,” he says, dragging a hand down his face, still smiling. “Just that. Easy.”
“I mean,” I say with a smile on my face. “You’re practically there.”
He huffs another laugh at that, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe that this is his life. “And you?” he asks.
It’s quiet and careful. There’s a furrow in his brow, and suddenly this seventeen-year-old boy is all man.
“I’ll figure it out.”
It’s the same answer I’ve given before. I can hear it, even as I say it, how practiced it sounds. He doesn’t push immediately, which almost makes it worse.
“That’s a problem for future me,” I say. “I need to get to the Olympics first, remember?”
Rodrigo laughs and finishes his ice cream. We sit in silence for a while longer, and the moment is full of the questions he wants to ask but is probably too scared to say out loud. I’m about to add something—to soften the hard edges of this tense moment, or maybe to clarify that he shouldn’t be concerned about me at all—when something presses lightly against my leg.
At first, I think it’s nothing. A little of that cool summer breeze that makes the fabric of my pants hit my leg in an uncomfortable way.
Then it happens again.
