Aiden
I wake up to the soft light filtering through my blinds, casting a warm glow over my room. There's a lingering sense of pride from yesterday, still fresh in my chest. Andrea's performance at the Snowpoint Winter Classic plays through my mind in flashes—each jump, each spin, her quiet confidence radiating on the ice. The day had been intense, and emotionally charged, and now that it's over, there's a certain weight that's lifted. But with that, another weight settles, a different kind of tension, one that I've been pushing aside for a while now.
I make my way downstairs, the house still quiet. The coffee machine hums softly as I wait for my cup to fill, my mind wandering back to Andrea. She's grown so much since we started working together; her dedication, her focus—they're unlike anything I've seen before. But it's more than just her skating. Somewhere along the line, my role as her coach became... complicated.
As I take my first sip of coffee, the realization sinks in. With the competition over, there's a shift in our dynamic—a loosening of the professional boundary that kept my feelings in check. Now, without the immediate need to focus on training, I can't ignore the way I feel about her. The memory of her standing in the spotlight, medal gleaming, looking at me with that bright smile—it's a vision that won't leave me.
I finish my coffee, staring out the kitchen window, and I feel an unexpected uncertainty. Part of me wants to reach out to Andrea, to talk to her, to let her know everything that's been swirling inside me. But another part holds back, knowing that our relationship, whatever it's becoming, is still fragile. She's just had her big win, and I don't want to complicate things for her.
There's a lot to consider now. Coaching her has been a privilege, but it's also become a challenge, not in terms of her skills but in terms of maintaining my focus, separating my role as her coach from this pull I feel toward her. I wonder if it's time to step back, to let her find her way without the blurred lines of our current relationship. But the thought of letting go, even slightly, sits uncomfortably.
I'm interrupted by the sound of my dad's footsteps. He walks in, looking pleased, and I realize he must be as proud of Andrea's performance as I am. He's the one who saw her potential first, who trusted me to help her when he couldn't.
"Morning, son," he says, grabbing his cup of coffee and taking a seat across from me. "Andrea's win the other day... that was something. You did a great job with her."
I nod, a small smile playing on my lips. "Thanks, Dad. She gave it everything out there."
He gives me a knowing look, his eyes thoughtful. "But it's not just about the skating, is it?"
I glance down, hesitating, but the truth is already there, hovering between us. "No, it's not," I admit, my voice quieter. "I have to say something... even though you asked me to help Andrea, I'm developing feelings for her."
He nods, taking it in without judgment. "You've done a great job with Andrea. But... be careful, Aiden. She's got a bright future ahead, and things can get complicated."
"I know, Dad," I say, meeting his gaze. "It's just... it's hard to keep things separate now. I care about her."
He reaches across the table, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I get it. But make sure you don't lose sight of what's important—for both of you."
The conversation sticks with me as I prepare to meet Andrea later in the day. The reality of it all, of the stakes involved, settles over me, but so does a sense of resolve. She deserves the truth, and maybe so do I. After everything we've been through, it's time to face this, whatever "this" might be.
When I arrive at the café, the fall air has a chill, but it's clear and refreshing. The trees along the sidewalk are painted in shades of amber and crimson, leaves fluttering to the ground with every gust of wind. I spot Andrea as she walks up, and my breath catches slightly. She's dressed in a cream-colored knit sweater that looks soft and warm, paired with high-waisted dark jeans that taper at her ankles, where sleek ankle boots complete the look. Her dark hair is pulled into a casual, loose ponytail, with a few stray strands framing her face. She looks effortlessly put together, her smile relaxed, and a part of me aches with how natural it feels to be around her.
YOU ARE READING
Breaking the Ice
General FictionSeventeen-year-old Andrea Nicole Anderson, a biracial figure skater with an American father and Filipino mother*, dreams of making it to the Olympics from her small town of Snowpoint, Vermont. When her coach steps down just before a major competitio...