Chapter 2
RODRIGUEZ
December
“Rodriguez, stop chirping my players,” Barrett yells from ice level when I lean over the boards to heckle Almardon.
“I’m providing valuable feedback!”
“You’re being annoying. Go bother someone who cares.”
I give him a salute and keep moving, every step making the knee brace straps dig tighter into my leg.
The Velcro catches and creaks with every step as I hobble through the facility.
Three weeks in this thing and I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to do three more.
Three weeks of sitting on my ass watching my teammates practice while I’m stuck doing the world’s most boring recovery routine.
I make it past the weight room where a couple of the guys are doing off-ice training, past the video room where our assistant coach is reviewing game footage, around the hallway to the other practice rink.
That’s when I spot her through the glass.
Juliette’s on the ice with a group of kids, demonstrating something that involves a lot of leg movements I definitely couldn’t do even before I wrecked my knee.
She’s in all black like always, her hair scraped back in a bun that looks like it could cause a headache.
Maybe that’s why she’s always so cranky.
I should keep walking. I know I should keep walking. But I hobble over to the bench area and lean against the boards to take some weight off my knee. One of the little kids sees me and waves.
Juliette notices the distraction and turns, her eyes landing on me, and she purses her lips, clearly annoyed that I’m disrupting her class.
“Hey,” I say, gesturing at the group. “Nice turnout. The brace is really working for me, right? Very attractive. I’m thinking of keeping it after the knee heals.”
She stares at me for a beat. “Is there something you need?”
“You ever think about giving private lessons? Because I could really use some help with my—”
“I’m teaching right now.”
“Right, yeah, I can see that. I’m just saying, when you’re not working—”
“No.” Her voice is flat and colder than usual. “I’ve told you that before.”
“Okay, wow. Rough crowd today.” I hold up my hands. “Message received.”
I turn to limp away and I swear I hear one of the kids ask her if she knows me. I can’t hear her response but I’m betting it’s not flattering.
Jake’s waiting by the PT room when I make my way back, arms crossed. “You’re supposed to be resting that knee, not hitting on the figure skaters.”
“I was resting it. I was leaning.”
“When are you going to learn?”
“With Ice Queen? Never. I need to come up with a new angle.”
“Pretty sure you’ve tried all the angles since September and none of them are working for you.”
“Yeah. I’m getting that impression.”
A week later I’m hobbling around the facility bored as hell. The team is getting back today from a four day trip, and I’ve already exhausted most of my entertainment options.
So now I’m in the media room, sprawled in a chair bothering Carly, my favorite media girl, while she tries to edit player interviews.
“Okay, hear me out,” I say for probably the fifth time in twenty minutes.
“No,” Carly says without looking up from her screen.
“You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“I’ve heard the last four. They were all terrible.”
“This one’s different.” I spin the chair in a lazy circle. “Player interviews, right? But we ask the real questions. The ones fans actually want to know.”
She glances over. “Like what?”
“Like...” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “What’s your go-to sex song?”
“Hard no,” Carly says.
“Mine’s No Hands and I bet Dex’s is Pony, Zach’s would totally be Like a Virgin.”
“Rodriguez, I’m begging you to stop.” She’s laughing though.
“It’s intimate! It’s revealing! The fans would eat it up!”
“The PR department would eat us alive. Next.”
“Okay, okay.” I spin the chair again. “Would you rather fight one horse-sized pigeon or a hundred pigeon-sized horses?”
She shudders a little bit. “The shit alone. But also no. We’re a professional sports organization.”
I slump deeper into the chair, letting my head fall back dramatically. “You’re killing my creative vision.”
“Your creative vision needs to be killed.”
“Fine. What about this—” I sit up straighter, struck by inspiration. “We ask all the guys what toppings they put on their hot dogs. And if anyone says ketchup, we kill them.”
She turns to stare at me.
“Rodriguez,” Carly says slowly.
“Off camera,” I clarify. “We kill them off camera. I’m not a monster.”
“You want to murder your teammates over condiment choices,” Carly says. “For content.”
“Okay, not MURDER murder. Just, like—” I gesture vaguely. “Pie to the face. Public shaming. Something.”
“You have serious issues.”
“I have PASSION. There’s a difference.”
She turns back to her computer. “Go bother someone else. I have actual work to do. Kerri wants these edits by three.”
“The new PR director?” I spin the chair one more time. “She seems cool.”
“She’s great. She’s also not going to approve any of your ideas, so don’t even think about going over my head.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“This is actual work. I’m workshopping. I’m collaborating.
” I pull out my phone, scrolling through my camera roll.
“Okay, new pitch. Hockey players as memes. Look—” I pull up TikTok, finding the video I posted yesterday.
Roman’s face mid-scowl after I asked him something stupid during practice, grumpy cat filter making his ears twitch. “Tell me this isn’t perfect.”
Carly leans over to look and she laughs. “Oh my god. Rodriguez, this has two million views.”
“I know, right? The fans love him.”
“He’s going to kill you.”
“He’s not even going to see it. Does Roman strike you as someone who’s on TikTok?”
“No. But he strikes me as someone who’s standing right behind you,” Carly says flatly.
I look back.
Roman is standing in the doorway. Shit.
“Cap!” I shove my phone in my pocket. “Welcome back. How was Chicago? Cold, right? I hear it’s cold there this time of—”
“Show me your phone.”
“What phone?”
Roman takes one step into the room. Just one. It’s enough.
“Okay, so here’s the thing.” I’m already standing and edging toward the door. “Art is subjective, and I really think if you look at it from a certain perspective—”
“Rodriguez.”
“It was a compliment! Grumpy cat is beloved! He’s an internet icon!”
“You have five seconds.”
“Carly, back me up here.”
“I don’t know you,” Carly says, eyes fixed on her screen. “Never seen you before in my life.”
“Betrayal. Okay.” I slip past Roman through the doorway, hands up in surrender. “I’m deleting it. Right now. Watch me delete it.”
I’m walking backwards down the hallway, making a show of pulling out my phone while Roman follows at a measured pace. He’s not running. He doesn’t need to. The threat is implied.
“There, see? Gone. Deleted forever.” I tap my screen a few times without actually deleting anything. “No more grumpy cat. The internet will never know what could have been.”
“And the version you sent to the group chat.”
Damn. He checks the group chat?
“Also deleted. Totally. One hundred percent.”
I round the corner toward the PT wing, putting some distance between us. Roman’s footsteps are still coming. The man has nowhere to be and all day to kill me.
The PT room door is right there. Marnie’s office. Safe harbor.
I duck inside without thinking, shutting the door behind me and leaning against it like that’s going to stop a six-foot-six wall of muscle if he really wants in.
“Doc, I need you to hide me,” I say, slightly out of breath. “Roman’s about to commit a murder and I’m too young and pretty to die.”
“I’m with a patient, Rodriguez.”
Patient?
I look past her and my brain completely screeches to a halt because Juliette is sitting on the treatment table.
Juliette. HERE.
I hear footsteps coming down the hall and I don’t think, I just drop, pressing myself against the side of the treatment table like that’s going to help.
Which puts me at eye level with Juliette’s bare calf.
Marnie’s asking me something. What did I do, why is Roman mad, something about posting videos without permission—I should probably answer her but I’m having trouble forming thoughts because I’m approximately eight inches away from the smoothest skin I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Rodriguez is behind the treatment table,” Marnie says right as Roman enters the room.
Narc.
Roman’s looming over me, threatening to make me eat my phone, and I’m deleting the video—both copies, yes, even the backup—while crouched on the floor next to Juliette’s leg while she watches all of this unfold with an eyebrow raised.
If she didn’t think I was a complete idiot before, she definitely does now.
Three days later, we’re heading to the arena—Zach for practice, me for PT and boredom when I get an idea.
“Let’s stop by Pucks & Pucks.”
“We don’t have time for that.”
“We have plenty of time. Come on, I’ll be quick.”
“Choose somewhere else.” Zach’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “It’s on the wrong side of the road. I don’t want to have to make a U-turn.”
“Since when do you care about U-turns?”
“Since now.”
“You’re being weird about this.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’re being so weird. Anderon’s daughter is probably working, I haven’t seen her in a while. She makes the best lattes.” I point at the next street. “Turn there.”
Zach rolls his eyes, but he turns.
The bell jingles as we walk in, and Mackie Anderson looks up from behind the counter. Her eyes land on Zach first before sliding to me.
“Rodriguez.” She leans on the counter. “Back for another maple latte your figure skater doesn’t want?”
“Peppermint mocha, actually. I’m evolving.”
“Groundbreaking.” She grabs a cup. “And for Zach?”
“Caramel latte,” I say. “Since he hated the black coffee last time.”
“Zach’s not really into caramel.” Mackie says it without thinking, already reaching for a marker. “He’s more of a hazelnut guy—”
She stops.
“I mean.” She sets the cup down carefully. “I assume. He strikes me as a hazelnut guy. Let’s try that today.”
Zach is studying the menu board like he’s never seen words before.
“Hazelnut’s fine,” he says to no one in particular.
“Cool.” Mackie turns to the espresso machine, shoulders stiff. “Coming right up.”
I look at Zach. Look at Mackie. Look at Zach again.
“So,” I say, letting whatever that was slide because I have bigger problems. “I need a new approach.”
Mackie turns to the espresso machine. “For the figure skater who hates you?”
“She doesn’t hate me. She’s just... cautious.”
“She told you to stop talking to her.”
“That was months ago. We’ve evolved since then.”
“Have you?” She glances over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Has she?”
I think about the PT room. The way she looked at me from the treatment table while I was crouched on the floor like an idiot. She didn’t tell me to leave. Didn’t roll her eyes or sigh or give me that look she usually gives me, like I’m a fly she’s too tired to swat.
“Something’s different,” I say. “I don’t know what, but something’s off with her.”
Mackie raises an eyebrow at me. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. Sad, maybe?” I pick at the edge of the counter.
“Wow. A sad girl. You should propose.”
“I’m serious.”
The espresso machine hisses. Zach is still staring at the menu board like it contains the secrets of the universe.
“Peppermint mocha,” Mackie says finally, sliding the cup across the counter. “Seasonal. Festive. Non-threatening.”
“You think it’ll work?”
“I think if she takes it, something’s definitely changed.” She shrugs. “And if she doesn’t, at least you’ll have a nice coffee for yourself.”
The beginner class is just wrapping up when we get to the rink. Little kids wobbling off the ice, parents collecting gear bags, the usual chaos.
Juliette’s sitting on the bench, alone. Skates already off, bag packed, just... sitting there. Staring at nothing.
She looks tired. The shadows under her eyes are worse than the last time I saw her. Her posture’s off too, shoulders curled in like she’s trying to take up less space.
“Good luck,” Zach says. “I’ll be in the locker room.”
I nod and head over before I can talk myself out of it.
She sees me coming. I watch her shoulders tense, like she’s mentally preparing whatever rejection she’s got loaded up today.
I sit down on the bench next to her. Not too close. Enough space that she doesn’t feel cornered.
“I’m not here to hit on you,” I say. “Just—hear me out for a second.”
She doesn’t tell me to leave. Just waits, guarded.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think lately. Sitting on my ass with this knee, watching everyone else skate, it’s...” I rub the back of my neck. “Anyway. I’ve been going over stuff in my head, and I realized I never actually asked you why you don’t like me.”
“Rodriguez—”
“I’m not saying you have to like me. That’s fine.
But I want to be friends with you, and I’m getting the vibe that you really don’t want that, and I don’t know why.
” I set the peppermint mocha on the bench between us.
“So. Here’s a coffee. You can keep it or throw it away. I won’t be offended either way.”
She’s looking at the cup like she doesn’t know what to do with it.
“And look—I know you think I’m just some annoying hockey player who doesn’t know when to quit. Maybe that’s true.” I stand up, brushing off my joggers. “But I’m also a really good listener. If you ever need someone to talk to. No strings, no agenda. Just... someone who’s there.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Anyway. That’s it. I’ll leave you alone now.”
I walk away and it takes everything I have not to look back.
Zach’s waiting by the locker room doors. “How’d it go?”
“I don’t know.” I glance toward the rink one more time. She’s still sitting there. “I guess we’ll see.”