Chapter 17 Juliette
JULIETTE
I wake up alone.
For a second I lie there, disoriented by the emptiness. The sheets on Rodriguez’s side are cool to the touch, the bathroom door is open, no sound of water running. Just silence and muted Toronto traffic outside.
He’s not here.
My phone says it’s 8:53 AM. Friday, February 14th.
Valentine’s Day.
Oh god. Is that why he’s gone? Did he wake up and remember what day it is and panic? Are we supposed to do something for Valentine’s Day? We’re fake dating except we’re not really fake dating anymore except we also haven’t defined what we’re actually—
I can feel the anxiety building, that familiar tightness in my chest, the way my thoughts start moving too fast. He probably just went to get coffee. Or breakfast. Or literally anything that isn’t him fleeing to the airport.
I force myself to sit up, pushing hair out of my face. The room is too quiet. His suitcase is still open on the luggage rack, clothes spilling out in his typical unorganized chaos.
Okay so he didn’t bolt.
That’s when I see it.
A note on his pillow, my name written in his terrible scratchy handwriting.
My hands aren’t steady when I pick it up.
Good morning, JuJu. I needed to run out for a bit. Be back by 10. Don’t leave the room without me. Also: I know what day it is. Do you? -R
I read it three times.
Do you?
Like it’s a challenge. Like he’s daring me to acknowledge it’s Valentine’s Day and we’re whatever we are and yesterday he kissed me in front of my entire family like he was staking a claim.
I should not find this as attractive as I do.
I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom, bringing my phone with me. While the water heats up I check my messages.
Olivia
Happy Valentine’s Day lovebirds! Rehearsal is at 5pm don’t be late
Mom
Have fun today sweetheart. You and Rodriguez should explore the city.
And one from a number I don’t recognize, though I know exactly who it is.
Hey Jules. It’s Garrett. Can we talk?
I stare at that last one for a long moment, my stomach twisting.
No. Absolutely not. Whatever Garrett wants to say, I don’t want to hear it. Not today. Not ever.
I delete the text without responding, pushing my thumb hard against the screen. Like I could delete him from existence if I just press hard enough.
The shower is scalding hot, exactly how I like it. I stand under the spray and try to organize my thoughts into something coherent.
Yesterday at the falls, something shifted. I felt it, that click when Rodriguez smiled at me. The realization that I’m not just falling for him. I’ve already fallen. Past tense. Done deal.
And last night he said he’s all in. Whatever this is, wherever it goes.
Which means what? That we’re actually doing this? That when we fly home Monday, we’re going to try—
The thought makes me feel something that’s suspiciously like hope.
I finish showering and spend more time than necessary on my hair and makeup. It’s not a performance to make Garrett jealous, it’s simply wanting to look nice. For him. For me.
I let my hair air-dries in loose waves instead of the sleek style I usually force it into. Minimal makeup. Jeans and a soft cream sweater. The blue scarf Rodriguez bought me is draped over the chair, waiting.
When I come out of the bathroom, it’s almost 10 which means Rodriguez should be back soon. Suddenly I’m nervous.
I check my phone again. Another text from Garrett.
Please. Just five minutes. I need to explain about Melissa.
I delete that one too.
At 9:58, I hear the key card in the door.
Rodriguez comes in carrying two coffee cups and a bag with a logo I recognize. He’s wearing jeans and the gray sweater we bought, and his hair is windblown, cheeks slightly pink from the cold.
“Morning,” he says, setting everything on the table. “Got you coffee. And a maple donut.”
“You went to Tim Hortons.”
“I went to Tim Hortons and had a very confusing conversation about your coffee order.” He puts the donut on a napkin and passes it to me.
“The woman asked if I wanted a double-double. I said I didn’t know what that was.
She explained it’s two cream, two sugar.
I said no, I need like... a double-double of a double-double. ”
I blink at him. “So a four by four?”
“I don’t know! I just kept saying more cream, more sugar until the woman asked if I was okay.” He laughs sheepishly. “Pretty sure she thought I was having some kind of breakdown. But I got you what you like.”
“You terrorized a Tim Hortons employee for me.”
“I terrorized a Tim Hortons employee for you on Valentine’s Day.” He pushes the coffee toward me. “Sit. Eat. We have plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“The kind where you trust me and don’t ask questions.” He grins. “Come on, JuJu. When have I ever steered you wrong?”
“You want a list?”
“Funny.” He’s already moving toward the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head one handed.
I bite into the sugary sweetness of the pastry at the exact moment he exposes his entire back, and my mouth waters.
From the donut obviously. “Twenty minutes. Wear something comfortable. Layers. And those boots you wore yesterday.”
He disappears before I can ask more questions.
My phone buzzes. Garrett again.
I know you’re getting these. Melissa told me what she did yesterday. I’m sorry. She was out of line.
I turn my phone face-down and take another bite of donut.
Not today. Today is whatever today is going to be. And I’m not letting Garrett ruin it.
Rodriguez emerges fifteen minutes later, freshly showered, hair still damp. “Ready?”
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“That’s because it’s a surprise.” He grabs his coat. “Come on. Trust me.”
I should probably push back. Ask more questions. Insist on a plan because that’s what I do, that’s who I am.
Instead I grab my coat and the blue scarf and follow him out.
We walk. It’s cold but not unbearable, and Rodriguez seems to know where he’s going. Front Street is busy with Friday morning commuters.
“Did you google this?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
“Rodriguez.”
“I wanted it to be good, okay?” He takes my hand, threading our fingers together. “It’s like a fifteen minute walk.”
The CN Tower rises above us. We pass the Rogers Centre, and then—
We stop in front of a building with “HOCKEY HALL OF FAME” in large letters.
I stare at him. “You brought me to the Hockey Hall of Fame.”
“I brought you to the Hockey Hall of Fame on Valentine’s Day because I’m romantic as hell.” He’s already pulling me toward the entrance. “Come on. This is going to be fun.”
“Rodriguez, I don’t know anything about hockey.”
“I know. That’s what makes this perfect.” He pays for both our tickets before I can reach for my wallet. “You get to watch me be a complete nerd about something.”
The first gallery is dedicated to the origins of hockey. Old photos, vintage equipment, early rules behind glass.
Rodriguez immediately starts talking.
“Okay, so see that?” He points to a photo of men playing on a frozen pond. “That’s 1880s hockey. Zero padding. Wooden sticks. Absolute chaos. Someone probably lost teeth in this exact game.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“True but also authentic as hell.” He moves to the next display. “Look at this. This is what goalies wore. Basically just a leather mask and a prayer.”
“You’re telling me people voluntarily got in front of frozen rubber projectiles wearing that.”
“I’m telling you hockey players have always been unhinged. It’s part of our charm.” He’s grinning. “Come on. The good stuff is further in.”
We move through the galleries and Rodriguez keeps up his steady stream of commentary. Some of it is actual hockey history. Most of it is him making fun of old players’ mustaches, doing terrible impressions, telling me absurd stories about fights and rivalries.
“You’re making half of this up,” I say.
“I’m making maybe thirty percent of it up. The rest is real and that’s what makes it better.” He points to a photo. “That guy? Actual enforcer. His job was literally to fight people.”
“That can’t be real.”
“That is one hundred percent real.” He’s moved on to the next display. “Oh, this is my favorite part. Come here.”
He leads me to a section dedicated to legendary players. Photos and jerseys and plaques.
“That’s Gretzky,” he says, pointing. “The Great One. Best player who ever lived. That’s Lemieux. That’s Howe. That’s—”
“Holy shit. Tim Horton.” I grab his arm and pull him toward the display. “Oh my god, I forgot they’d have him here.”
Rodriguez blinks at me. “You know who Tim Horton is?”
“I’m from Toronto. Of course I know who Tim Horton is.” I stare at the photo. “He was such an absolute hottie too.”
“I—you—” Rodriguez sputters, gesturing between me and the photo. “You’re just now telling me you have a thing for hockey players?”
“Don’t judge me. Look at him.”
Rodriguez looks at the photo, then back at me. “I can’t believe the one hockey player you know is because you thought he was hot.”
“He made donuts AND he could fight. What’s not to love?”
“JuJu.” He turns me to face him, hands on my shoulders, expression deadly serious. “I can fight on the ice. You’ve never seen how good I can fight.”
“But can you make donuts?”
He opens his mouth then closes it.
“Well.” I pat his chest. “Now you know the bare minimum standard it takes to impress me.”
He narrows his eyes. “I’m going to learn to make donuts. Just so you know. Out of spite.”
“I look forward to it.”
“They’re going to be terrible donuts and you’re going to eat them anyway.
” He’s already pulling me toward the next display, back in tour guide mode.
“Okay, moving on from your elderly hockey boyfriend—that’s Bobby Orr, completely revolutionized the defenseman position. That’s Messier, won six Cups. That’s—”
He keeps going, rattling off names, and I just watch him. The way his entire face lights up when he talks about hockey. The gestures, the enthusiasm.
This is Rodriguez with all his walls down, existing in a space surrounded by things he loves.