Chapter 12
RODRIGUEZ
I wake up to the best kind of torture.
Juliette is draped across me, one leg thrown over mine, her face pressed against my chest, her dark hair everywhere, an arm across my ribs and her hand tucked firmly under my back.
She’s completely dead to the world, making little sleep noises that aren’t quite snores but that are absolutely destroying me.
I’m trying to mentally recite hockey stats to distract myself but all I can focus on is how perfectly she fits against me.
And my left arm is completely numb.
I’ve been awake for almost ten minutes and trying not to move, not to breathe too hard, not to do anything that might wake her up and end this.
Because I know the moment she realizes she’s using me as a personal body pillow, she’s going to launch herself to the other side of the bed and act like this never happened.
So I’m suffering through the pins and needles feeling in my arm, the sharp tingling that’s spreading from my shoulder to my fingertips, and the fact that I desperately need to pee. All because Juliette is asleep on me and I’m not about to ruin it.
This is both heaven and hell. Mostly heaven. Definitely worth the dead arm.
I shift slightly, trying to get some blood flow back without disturbing her. She makes a sound that’s half sigh, half complaint, and burrows closer, her nose pressing into my collarbone.
I’m going to die. That’s it. This is how I go. Crushed under the weight of my own stupid feelings for a woman who barely tolerates me.
Then she moves. Just a small shift, her breathing changing from deep sleep to something lighter. I freeze, hoping she’ll settle back down, but instead she goes completely rigid.
She’s awake.
I can tell by the way her body tenses up, the way her breathing stutters and then goes carefully even. She’s realized the position we’re in and she’s about to panic and bolt.
Sure enough, she extracts her leg so smoothly it’s almost criminal, rolls away from me like she was just adjusting in her sleep, settles on her other side facing away from me.
And then she goes perfectly still in that way that means she’s definitely not sleeping anymore.
I have two options here. I can call her out on the terrible fake sleeping, or I can let her save face and pretend I’m still asleep too.
I stretch big and obvious, making sure she can hear me “waking up.” Add a yawn for good measure. “Morning.”
Nothing. She’s committed to the bit.
I get out of bed and head to the bathroom, grinning the whole way. She was cuddled up to me. For most of the night, apparently, based on how numb my arm was. Juliette “Ice Queen” Chastain was using me as a teddy bear and has no idea I know.
I’m keeping that information forever.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror. We just survived night one and we’ve got five more nights in this bed, five more mornings where she might wake up wrapped around me like that.
I pick up the hotel notepad and pen that I grabbed from the desk on my way to the bathroom. She’s still “sleeping” when I start writing.
I fold the note and tuck it into her makeup bag, the sleek black case she organized so carefully, everything in its perfect place. She’ll find it when she gets ready.
I’m still grinning when I head for the shower.
When I come out, she’s “waking up.” She’s stretching and yawning and it’s actually a pretty good performance, if I didn’t know better I’d totally buy it.
“Morning,” she says, voice slightly rough from sleep.
“Hey. You sleep okay?”
“Fine.” She’s already up, grabbing clothes from her perfectly organized suitcase. “I’m going to shower.”
She disappears into the bathroom and I hear the water start. I get dressed and check my phone. Messages from Almardon asking how it’s going, one from my mom asking about the wedding, three from the team group chat that I ignore because it’s probably just them being idiots.
Nothing urgent. Just a Wednesday morning in Toronto where I’m fake-dating the girl I’ve been half in love with for five months.
Normal stuff.
Juliette emerges twenty minutes later, hair damp and twisted over her shoulder, wearing jeans and a sweater. She looks perfect and put-together and like she definitely didn’t spend the night using me as furniture.
“I was thinking we could grab coffee,” I say. “There’s a place that has thousands of five-star reviews so it can’t be bad.”
“Your family seemed nice last night,” I offer after we’ve ordered and settled at a small cafe table.
“They liked you.”
“Everyone likes me.”
“You’re very confident about that.”
“It’s not confidence if it’s just facts.” I take a bite of my breakfast sandwich. “Your sister seems really excited about the wedding.”
“She’s been planning it for almost a year. Everything has to be perfect.”
“Sounds stressful.”
“That’s Olivia though. She wants everything to be exactly right.” Juliette takes a sip of her coffee. “She’s always been like that. Even as a kid.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Were you always the serious one?”
She thinks about this for a second, her nose scrunching slightly. “I was always the one who had to be responsible. Olivia got to be fun and spontaneous. I got to be the one who made sure things actually got done.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was fine.”
“Was it though?”
She looks at me over the rim of her cup, steam rising between us. “What are you, my therapist now?”
“Just making conversation, JuJu.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You love it.”
“I actually do not.”
But she’s almost smiling again.
“Real talk. I realized last night that I didn’t pack enough clothes.” I gesture at myself. “I have like two shirts and one pair of jeans left. We’re here until Monday.”
“You seriously didn’t pack enough clothes?”
“In my defense, I thought this was only a few days. Like three days tops.”
“It’s six days, Rodriguez. How did you think—” She stops. “Oh my god. You really didn’t know when you agreed to come.”
“I know now!”
She’s trying not to laugh, actually trying and failing, her shoulders shaking slightly. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Wear the same shirt multiple days? Pretend it’s a fashion statement?”
“You can’t do that. My family will definitely notice.” She pulls out her phone. “There’s a mall about a twenty-five minute walk from here. We can grab you some basics before the brewery tour starts.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Rodriguez. You’re doing me a massive favor by being here. The least I can do is make sure you don’t smell by day four.”
“I wouldn’t smell.”
“You would 100% smell.”
We finish our coffee and head out into the cold Toronto morning. And it is freezing, the cold air makes my lungs ache. I’m glad I packed my heavy coat and Juliette’s wrapped in a wool peacoat and boots that look like they could survive an arctic expedition.
The walk to Eaton Centre takes us through downtown, past buildings that are mostly glass and steel mixed with beautiful older brick architecture. Juliette points out places she used to go as a kid, telling me about the rink where she first learned to skate as we walk.
She’s more relaxed here, like being back in Toronto has loosened something in her that’s usually wound tight.
The mall is crowded even on a Wednesday morning. We find a store that has the basics and Juliette immediately goes into organization mode, pulling things off racks before I can even look at them properly.
“You need warmer layers,” she says, holding up a dark gray thermal shirt. “Try this.”
I take it from her and she’s already moved on to another rack.
“And another pair of jeans, what length are you? What about a half-zip sweater for the rehearsal dinner?”
She’s enjoying this, completely in her element, organizing and planning and making sure everything is perfect. And I’m letting her because watching Juliette Chastain boss me around about clothing is somehow the best part of my morning.
“This one,” she says, holding up a charcoal sweater. “It’ll look good with your coloring.”
“You’ve thought about my coloring?”
Her face goes pink. “It’s basic color theory. Not everything is flirting.”
“Didn’t say it was. But you’re blushing.”
“I’m not—shut up and try this on.”
I grab the sweater and a few other things she’s picked out, disappearing into the fitting room.
When I come out, she’s examining a display of winter accessories. Scarves, beanies, gloves, all arranged by color.
And there it is. A scarf and beanie set in deep sapphire blue, the exact shade that would look incredible with her dark hair. Without thinking, I grab it and add it to my pile while she’s distracted.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say when she comes back with more items. “I appreciate the help but I don’t need a whole new wardrobe.”
“You need to look good for this week.”
“I’ll look fine.”
We head to the register and I start putting everything on the counter. That’s when she notices the blue peeking out from under my pile.
“What’s that?”
“Accessories.”
“That’s blue.”
“So?”
“Everything else you got was black or gray.” She’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure out my angle.
I pull out the scarf and beanie. “Then I guess you’ll have to take them.”
“Rodriguez—”
“You said the cold is brutal. Now you won’t freeze either.” I pay before she can argue more.
“This is too much.”
“It’s a scarf and a hat, JuJu. Not lingerie.”
But I wish it was, great, now I’m imagining her in sapphire blue lingerie.
We leave the mall with bags full of clothes I didn’t plan to buy and Juliette looking pleased with herself about the whole thing. The walk back is colder now, the wind picking up and cutting through even my heavy coat.
We’re about halfway back to the hotel when Juliette stops in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Oh my god.”
I follow her gaze. There’s a food truck parked on the corner, a small line of people waiting. The sign says “BeaverTails” in red letters.
“What’s a beaver tail?” I ask.
“Only the best thing in the entire world.” She’s already walking toward it, faster than I’ve seen her move all morning. “Come on.”
I’ve never seen her excited about food before. Juliette is usually all carefully portioned meals and protein shakes and eating because it’s functional. The only thing she’s really had a strong opinion about is her coffee order. But right now she looks like a kid in front of an ice cream truck.
We get in line and she’s practically bouncing on her toes. “You have to try one. It’s basically fried dough but shaped like a beaver tail and you can get different toppings but the classic is cinnamon and sugar and it’s—” She stops. “I sound crazy.”
“You sound like you really like beaver tails.”
“I haven’t had one in three years. Since before I moved to Seattle.”
We order one to share and when the guy hands it over, it’s still hot and covered in a mountain of sugar and cinnamon and Juliette’s entire face lights up.
“Here,” she says, breaking off a piece for me. “Try it.”
I could take it from her hand. That would be the normal thing to do.
Instead, I lean forward, taking a bite directly from her fingers, letting my teeth scrape across her skin.
Her breath catches and her pupils dilate.
For half a second she doesn’t pull her hand away and I wonder what would happen if I—but then she snatches it back like she remembered we’re in public, on a sidewalk, in Toronto, fake dating.
The pastry is hot enough to burn my mouth slightly, crispy on the outside and soft inside, covered in so much cinnamon and sugar that it gets everywhere. It tastes like every carnival and fair I’ve ever been to, sweet and indulgent and completely worth the mess.
“Do you like it?” she asks, breaking off her own piece.
“Really good.”
We walk and eat and I’m watching her more than I’m watching where we’re going. She’s got sugar on her chin and fingers and she looks absolutely joyful.
She’s not performing right now. Not controlling every gesture and expression. She’s just happy. Over fried dough and cinnamon.
“You’ve got—” I gesture to my own chin.
“What?” She touches her face, missing it completely.
“Here, let me.” I reach over and brush the sugar away with my thumb. Her skin is soft, still slightly cold from the air, and she goes completely still.
We’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, people moving around us, and I’m touching her face while she stares at me with those light eyes gone wide.
“Got it,” I say, pulling my hand back even though everything in me wants to keep touching her.
“Thanks.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
We keep walking but she’s quiet, eating her half of the beaver tail with smaller bites now.
“So,” I say, because the silence is going to kill me. “You have a sweet tooth.”
She laughs. “What gave it away?”
“The way you looked at that food truck like it was serving water in a desert.”
“It kind of was though.” She finishes her last bite and licks the sugar off her fingers and I have to look away before I do something stupid. “I usually don’t let myself eat stuff like this. It’s not on the plan.”
“What plan?”
“The training plan. The nutrition plan. The ‘be perfect at all times’ plan.” She crumples the napkin in her fist. “But I’m not training right now anyway, so.”
“Because of your ankle?”
“Yeah. I can’t jump for another few weeks. By the time I’m cleared, qualifiers will be over.” She says it matter-of-factly but I can hear the edge underneath. “So no competing.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Feels like it is sometimes.”
We walk in silence for a bit. I want to say something helpful, something that will make it better, but I’ve got nothing. What do you say to someone whose dreams keep getting destroyed by bad timing and bad luck?
“I think you’re pretty incredible even without making it to a national championship,” I say finally.
“You barely know me.”
“I’m learning.”
“Come on,” she says. “We need to get back. The brewery tour starts at two.”
She’s quiet for most of the walk back to the hotel and I can’t stop thinking about how her skin felt under my thumb, how she looked at that food truck like it held all the happiness in the world, how when she smiles it completely transforms her face.
Five more days. I’ve got five more days to keep learning about her and making her smile like that.
Five more days to convince her that maybe this doesn’t have to be fake.
I’m going to make every single one of them count.