Chapter 5
JULIETTE
I almost chicken out.
I don’t know why I said yes yesterday. He’s asked me out three times now—four if you count the video incident back in September—and I’ve shut him down every single time. I have a system for this. I don’t date. I focus on skating. I keep my life simple and controlled and exactly how I need it to be.
Except my life isn’t simple right now. It’s a complete disaster.
It’s been almost two months since Garrett ended our relationship via FaceTime. On a Sunday night. While I was meal-preparing.
Two months and I still feel like I’m walking around with a hole where something should be.
Except it’s not heartbreak, exactly. It’s more like numbness than anything else.
I should be devastated. I should be crying and listening to sad music and doing all the things you’re supposed to do after a three-year relationship ends.
Instead I just feel empty. And maybe a little bit relieved, then I feel guilty for feeling relieved.
The passenger door opens suddenly, letting in a rush of cold air, and Rodriguez slides in, moving carefully because of the knee brace.
“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for this.”
“No problem.”
He buckles his seatbelt, and I realize I’m actually doing this. I’m actually spending the afternoon with Rodriguez, who I’ve been avoiding for months. My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“So,” he says. “Coffee first?”
“There’s a place two blocks from here.”
“Lead the way.”
The coffee shop is one of those extremely hip places with exposed brick and mismatched furniture and a chalkboard menu that takes up an entire wall.
I think for a split second that he’s hitting on the barista before he introduces her as his teammate Anderson’s daughter, and launches into a conversation with her about her college classes.
His voice is easy, genuine, the same way he talks with everyone apparently.
We order and find a table by the window. I wrap my hands around my cup, letting the heat seep into my fingers.
“So,” he says, wrapping both hands around his cup the same way I am. His fingers are long, callused at the tips. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised you said yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve rejected me three times now.”
“You were keeping count?”
“I was definitely keeping count.” He’s smiling, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. My stomach does this flip. “What changed?”
I should lie. Should say something about it being convenient, about heading the same direction anyway, about it not being a big deal.
Instead I hear myself say, “My boyfriend broke up with me. After he cheated. For four months.”
His eyebrows go up. “You had a boyfriend.”
“For three years. It was long distance, but yes.”
“Oh.” He sits back in his chair. “Oh. Okay, that—that explains so much actually.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up slightly on one side. He looks genuinely relieved, like everything finally makes sense.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you just found me incredibly annoying. Which, fair. I am annoying. But this makes way more sense now.” He’s grinning, his whole face lighting up in a way that’s almost infectious.
“I was getting a complex about it. Like, is my face offensive? Is it the hair? Does she just hate hockey players in general?”
“It wasn’t you.”
“I mean, it was a little bit me. I was pretty persistent.”
“You brought me coffee I didn’t ask for.”
“After learning your order from eavesdropping on you talking to Jake. Which in retrospect was super creepy.”
“Very creepy.”
“But also kind of sweet?”
“No. Just creepy.”
He laughs, and the sound is warm and unguarded. “Okay, I deserved that. So what happened? With the boyfriend?”
I take a sip of my latte, buying time to figure out what to say. “He broke up with me. Long distance didn’t work out.”
It’s not the whole truth. But it’s enough truth for a first coffee with someone who’s been persistently asking me out for three months straight.
“His loss,” Rodriguez says simply.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you get up at six in the morning to skate alone. I know you’re patient with kids but you don’t take shit from anyone. I know you land triples like it’s nothing. That’s enough to know he was an idiot.”
My face heats up. “So you have been watching me.”
“Yeah, guilty.” He takes a drink of his coffee, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. Then I realize I’m watching and look away. “So. Now that I finally have you sitting in front of me without you running away—tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Favorite food? Worst date you’ve ever been on? Weird talent you have that no one knows about?”
“Those are three very different questions.”
“Pick one. Any one. I’m easy.”
I consider this, my fingers still wrapped around the warm cup. “Worst date was when a guy took me to a hockey game and spent the entire time explaining the rules to me even though I told him I already understood them.”
Rodriguez winces. “Ouch. Mansplaining at a hockey game. That’s rough.”
“He kept saying things like ‘so that’s called icing’ and ‘now they’re going to have a faceoff’ like I couldn’t see what was happening right in front of me.”
“Did you murder him?”
“No, but I wanted to.”
“I promise never to explain hockey to you. Even if you ask me to.”
“What if I genuinely don’t understand something?”
“Then I’ll explain it condescendingly and slowly, exactly how you want it.”
I laugh because he’s so ridiculous, the sound surprising even me. “Your turn. Worst date.”
“Easy. Took a girl to a nice restaurant, thought everything was going great. She excused herself to the bathroom and never came back.”
“She ditched you?”
“Completely. Left me sitting there for like twenty minutes before I realized what happened. I even paid for her meal.”
“That’s terrible.”
“The worst part? She’d driven us there. I had to call Almardon to pick me up. He’s never let me live it down.”
“The goalie?”
“Yep. Backup goalie. Also my best friend and the person who gives me the most shit about literally everything.” He’s grinning again, leaning back in his chair. “He told me for weeks that my face must have been really offensive.”
“It’s not that offensive.”
“Wow. High praise.”
“I didn’t say it was good. Just not that offensive.”
“I’m going to take that as a win.” He leans forward slightly, his elbows coming to rest on the table, and suddenly the space between us feels smaller. “Okay, next question. Weird talent.”
“I can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute.”
“No way.”
“Way. I got really into it in high school. Needed something to do with my hands during competitions when I was nervous.”
“That’s actually really cool. Mine is way more useless.”
“What is it?”
“I can juggle. But only with food. Like, apples or oranges. If you give me actual juggling balls I’m terrible. But produce? I’m your guy.”
I laugh. “That is completely useless.”
“I told you. But it’s a great party trick.”
“When does juggling fruit come up at parties?”
“You’d be surprised. There’s always a moment where someone goes ‘does anyone have a weird talent’ and boom, ‘I’m your guy if you’ve got some oranges.’”
He talks about growing up and learning to skate at a mall rink when he was six.
I tell him about teaching beginner classes and how satisfying it is when a kid finally lands their first jump.
He calls the kids ‘ankle-biters’ and asks if I miss Toronto.
I ask for stories about his teammates and what it’s like on roadtrips.
It’s light and comfortable. Not deep or heavy or anything that requires me to examine my feelings about Garrett or my ankle or any of the other things I’m actively avoiding.
“So,” he says eventually, checking his phone. “I have to ask. Why did you finally say yes? Besides the boyfriend thing. You could have kept saying no.”
I consider lying again. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—genuinely curious, not pushy—that makes me want to be honest.
“You looked different yesterday. When you asked. Less—” I search for the word. “Less confident. More real.”
“The knee brace really completed the look, huh?”
“It wasn’t that. It was—” I stop, trying to articulate it. “You’ve been a persistent, charming guy who won’t take no for an answer. And yesterday you just looked human. Like maybe you were actually asking because you wanted to, not because it was a challenge.”
He’s quiet, his fingers drum softly against his cup. “That’s fair. I probably did treat it like a challenge at first. The girl who kept saying no. But somewhere along the way it stopped being about winning and started being about actually wanting to get to know you.”
“When?”
“When I saw you teaching those kids. You were so patient with them. One little girl fell and started crying and you crouched down and said something that made her laugh. And I thought—” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine.
“I thought I wanted to know what you said. What made her laugh. What you’re like when you’re not shutting me out. ”
My throat tightens. “Oh.”
“Too much? I’m being too much, aren’t I? Almardon says I always do this.”
“No. It’s—that’s nice actually.”
“Just nice?”
“I’m not good at compliments. I’m working on it.”
“I’ll take nice.” He checks his phone again. “We should probably head out soon. Don’t you have lessons at four?”
“Yeah. And you have PT.”
“The joy of being broken.” He stands, testing his knee carefully, his hand bracing against the table. “Thanks for this. For giving me a chance.”
“You’re welcome.”
The drive to the facility takes about twenty-five minutes with traffic. Rodriguez immediately connects his phone to my car’s Bluetooth.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making a playlist for the drive.”
“We’re in the car for twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes is plenty of time for a carefully curated musical experience.” He’s scrolling through his phone. “Do you like Save Divinity?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really listen to music outside of skating.”
“You don’t listen to music?”
“I listen to music. Just not like—casually. It’s always for programs or training.”
“That’s tragic. Okay, new mission. I’m introducing you to music that has nothing to do with skating or triple axels or whatever.”
“Rodriguez—”
“Too late. It’s happening.”
A song starts playing through my speakers, something I vaguely recognize but couldn’t name if my life depended on it.
“This band is basically if Fall Out Boy and The Cab had a baby,” he says. “Classic. Iconic. Required listening for functioning in society.”
“Required by who?”
“By me. The authority on all things music-related.”
“That’s a self-appointed title.”
“The best titles always are.”
I can’t stop myself from grinning, watching the road as we merge into traffic.
He keeps up a running dialogue on every song that plays, telling me useless facts about the bands, making terrible jokes, singing along off-key to certain parts.
His voice is surprisingly good when he’s not trying to be funny, rich and warm in the small space.
He taps his fingers against his thigh in rhythm.
It’s so silly and so him. And I reluctantly realize I’m having fun.
When was the last time I had fun like this? Not performing, not the satisfaction of landing a jump or teaching a good lesson. Just fun. Laughing at stupid jokes. Being present in a moment.
“You know what?” he says as we’re pulling into the facility parking lot. “We should exchange numbers. For friend purposes.”
“Okay. Hand me your phone.”
We swap phones and I pull up his contacts, start typing my information. First name, last name, the way I organize everything.
When I get my phone back, I look at what he entered.
“Really?” I hold up the screen. “’Romeo Rodriguez’?”
He’s grinning, completely unrepentant. “What? It’s perfect.”
“This joke has never been funny. Not once.”
“Romeo and Juliet will never not be hilarious.”
“I’ve had to hear this as a bad pickup line since ninth grade when we studied Shakespeare. ‘Oh you’re Juliet? Where’s your Romeo?’ It’s not clever.”
“I think it’s a little clever.”
“It’s not.” I start to edit it, my thumb hovering over the backspace. “What’s your actual first name?”
“Leave it. I like it.”
“I’m not keeping ‘Romeo’ in my phone.”
“Sure you are. It’s growth for you. Learning to be less serious.” He’s unbuckling his seatbelt. “Plus, if you’re this worked up about it, that says more about you than me, Ice Queen.”
My face heats up. “I’m not worked up. It’s just stupid.”
“Stupid and yet you’re still smiling.”
“I’m not—” I am smiling. I can feel it. “Get out of my car.”
“So romantic. Just like the balcony scene.”
“Rodriguez—”
“See? Much safer to stick with the last name.” He opens the door, cold air rushing in. “Text me later, JuJu!”
“It’s Juliette!”
His response is a text.
Rodriguez
“Oranges?” I ask, looking up at him through the open door.
“Representing my juggling talents. Very sophisticated friendship communication.”
“That’s the least sophisticated thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You love it though.”
I roll my eyes but my cheeks hurt from smiling. “Go to PT before they give away your time slot.”
“So bossy. I like it.” He waves and heads inside, moving carefully on his injured knee.
I sit there for a moment, replaying the past hour in my mind.
I just spent an hour with Rodriguez. We had coffee. We talked about stupid things like fruit juggling and worst dates. He made me laugh. He made me a playlist for a twenty-minute drive.
And for the first time in two months, I didn’t think about Garrett for an entire hour.
My phone buzzes in my lap.
Rodriguez
Thanks again for the ride. And for giving me a chance. Even if it’s just as friends.
(I’m going to be a VERY ANNOYING FRIEND)
(Fair warning)
I text back, my thumbs moving quickly.
I figured that out in September.
Rodriguez
And yet here we are
Progress
Also for the record, your face isn’t offensive either
It’s actually pretty great
Okay I’m going to PT now before I say something else embarrassing
Too late. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day.
Rodriguez
RUDE
I take back the face compliment
No takebacks.
Rodriguez
Fine. You have a great face. Deal with it.
I put my phone down, laughing at the absurdity of it. Actually laughing, alone in my car, reading texts from someone who juggles oranges and made me a playlist.