Chapter 17 Juliette #2
“You’re not even listening,” he says, catching me staring.
“I am listening.”
“You’re smiling at me, not the displays.”
“Maybe I like watching you more than I like learning about hockey.”
He looks at me. Soft and pleased and a little surprised, like he still can’t quite believe I’m here.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand again. “There’s one more thing you have to see.”
He leads me into another room with dark wood paneling, atmospheric lighting, and in the middle—
The Stanley Cup.
The actual Stanley Cup, sitting on a platform, lit from above.
Rodriguez stops dead in the doorway.
“Is that—” I start.
“Yeah.” He’s whispering like we’re in a church and he’s approaching a holy relic.
We move closer and I realize he’s being weird. His hands are in his pockets and he’s standing back from the table.
“You can go closer,” I say. “I think you’re even allowed to—”
“No! You don’t touch it.” He’s staring at the Cup. “Not unless you’ve won it. It’s—there’s a superstition. You don’t touch it until you’ve earned it.”
I look at him, then at the Cup, then back at him. “You’re serious.”
“Completely serious. Every player knows this. You don’t touch it.” He takes a small step back. “It’s bad luck.”
“That seems a little ridiculous.”
“That’s hockey.” But he’s smiling now. “I know it’s stupid. But I’m not risking it. When I touch that Cup, it’s going to be because I earned it.”
The certainty in his voice tells me he’s serious.
“You really think you’re going to win it.”
“I know I’m going to win it.” He finally tears his eyes away to look at me. “Maybe not this year. Maybe not next year. But someday. And when I do, I’m touching the hell out of that thing. I’m drinking champagne out of it. I’m sleeping next to it.”
“You’ve really thought about this.”
“JuJu, I’ve been dreaming about this since I was six years old.” He takes my hand, pulls me away from the Cup. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ve tortured myself enough for one day.”
We leave and step back into the cold. The sun is higher now, bright and sharp.
“Thank you,” I say. “For sharing that with me.”
“You’re welcome. Sorry I was weird about the Cup.”
“Don’t apologize. It was—” I pause. “It was good to see you care about something that much.”
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting. “I care about you, Juju.”
My breath catches. “Rodriguez—”
“I’m not—” He stops then starts again. “I’m just saying. In case you were wondering. I care about you. A lot.”
The wind picks up, bitter cold, but I barely feel it.
“I care about you, too,” I say quietly.
“Good,” he says. “Now come on. I’m starving.”
Chef’s Hall is packed. A dozen different food stalls line the perimeter.
Rodriguez heads straight for one stall.
“Gourmet hot dogs,” he says, staring at the menu. “JuJu. Look at this menu.”
I scan the options. “They certainly have a lot of hot dogs if that’s what you’re in the mood for.”
He’s already pulling out his wallet. “Who’s never not in the mood for a hot dog? What are you getting?”
“Maybe the Canada dog?”
He stops and turns to stare at me. “The Canada dog.”
“Yeah. It looks good.”
“Juliette. That one has ketchup on it.”
“So?”
“So ketchup doesn’t belong on hot dogs. That’s—it’s sacrilege. I’m from Chicago. We have rules about this.”
“It’s a hot dog, Rodriguez. Not a religion.”
“It’s both.” He’s looking at me like I just committed a crime. “You can’t get the one with ketchup. Get literally any other one. Anything but ketchup.”
“I want the Canada dog.”
“Fine. You know what? I’m getting this one.” He points. “The one with blueberry jam and brie cheese. To prove a point.”
“What point?”
“That there are acceptable toppings that aren’t ketchup.”
We order. I get my Canada dog. He gets his blueberry jam monstrosity. Rodriguez takes a bite and makes a face.
“How is it?” I ask, biting down on my lip because he’s clearly disgusted by his food.
“It’s fine.”
“Rodriguez.”
“It’s good. It’s… interesting.”
“You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it. The jam is very... jammy. And the brie is definitely cheese.” He takes another bite. “It’s a choice.”
“Are you enjoying your choice?”
“I’m committed to my choice.” He takes another defiant bite. “This is delicious. The blueberry really complements the... hot dog-ness.”
I’m trying not to laugh. “You can just admit the ketchup dog was the better option.”
“Absolutely not. That would validate ketchup and I can’t do that. This is great. I love blueberries. And cheese. Together. On a tube of meat.”
He grimaces through another bite. “Okay fine. This is weird. But I’m finishing it because it’s still a hot dog.”
We eat and talk and I realize this random food hall with Rodriguez choking down a hot dog he hates—this is better than any fancy restaurant could have been.
After lunch, we head back out into the cold. He doesn’t tell me where we’re going, just pulls me along.
“One more thing,” he says. “And then we’ll head back for the rehearsal.”
“What thing?”
“You’ll see.”
We end up at Nathan Phillips Square. The ice rink stretched out, packed with couples and families.
“You brought me ice skating,” I say flatly.
“I brought you ice skating on Valentine’s Day at the most iconic rink in Toronto.” He’s already heading toward the rental booth. “What size are you?”
“Rodriguez, I skate six days a week.”
“Exactly. Which means you’re amazing at it and I’m going to look like an idiot trying to keep up.” He grins. “Come on, Ice Queen. Humor me.”
We get the terrible rental skates and lace up.
“I should warn you,” Rodriguez says, testing his balance. “I might be a hockey player. I can skate. But I can’t skate like you skate.”
“I’ll try not to laugh.”
“Please do laugh. I want to hear it.” He offers me his hand. “Ready?”
We step onto the ice and immediately I feel the difference. These skates are dull and loose. The ice is rough, all chopped up.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because Rodriguez takes my hand and pulls me into the flow then turns and skates backward so he can face me, grinning and showing off.
“Having fun?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? I’m skating with you. This is the best.” He spins. “Okay. Truth time. I’m a way better skater than I let on.”
“I noticed.”
“These skates are terrible but I can work with terrible skates.” He’s picking up speed now. “Want to see something cool?”
“Rodriguez—”
He takes off, cutting across the rink. Does a tight turn at the far end then comes racing back.
He hockey stops right in front of me, so close that ice chips spray up.
“Show-off,” I say.
“You love it.” He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed. “Okay. Your turn. Show me something.”
“On these skates? Absolutely not.”
“Come on. Just a little jump. Something easy.”
“Rodriguez—”
“Please?” He’s got his puppy dog eye out now. “For me? Because it’s Valentine’s Day and I want to see you do something beautiful?”
I glance around. The rink is crowded but there’s a clear patch. The ice is terrible. The skates are worse.
But he’s looking at me like that. Like I’m capable of magic.
“Fine. But just something small. These skates are death traps.”
I skate to the clear patch. Check my surroundings. Find my balance.
And I do a simple waltz jump. Nothing complicated. Just a small rotation.
When I land—barely, the dull blades almost catching—Rodriguez is staring at me like I just landed a quad.
“That was—” He skates closer, fast. “You just—”
“It was nothing. Basic stuff.”
“That wasn’t nothing.” He’s in front of me now, hands on my waist. “That was perfect.”
“It was barely a rotation—”
“JuJu. You just flew. On rental skates that are older than we are. On ice that’s basically gravel.” His eyes are bright. “That was incredible.”
“Flattery will get you no where.”
He pulls me closer. “Again. Do it again.”
“Absolutely not. I’m lucky I landed that one.”
“Fine. Then I’ll do one.”
I blink. “What?”
“A jump. I’ll do a jump.” He’s already skating backward. “Watch this.”
“Rodriguez, you can’t—”
He takes off. Building speed. And then he actually attempts a jump. A full rotation. In rental skates.
He gets maybe halfway around before completely bailing, landing hard on his hip, sliding across the ice.
I skate over as fast as these terrible skates will let me. “Are you okay?”
He’s lying on his back, staring up at me, slightly stunned. “I almost had it.”
“You didn’t even come close.”
“I had the height. The rotation was there.”
“The rotation was not there.” I’m trying not to laugh. “You landed on your ass.”
“Because the skates betrayed me.” He sits up, brushing ice off. “Okay. New bet. I bet I can land a single rotation before we leave this rink.”
“That’s a terrible bet. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“So you’re scared I’ll actually do it.”
“I’m scared you’ll break something and I’ll have to explain to my family why my boyfriend is in the ER on Valentine’s Day.”
The word comes out on accident. But it sounds natural, like it’s true.
His expression goes soft. “JuJu—”
“Fine,” I say quickly, before this gets too serious. “You want to bet? Let’s bet. But when you lose, and you will lose, you have to buy me hot chocolate.”
“And when I win, you have to kiss me.”
“You’re going to make me kiss you as a prize?”
“Yes. In front of all these people. Because I want everyone to know you’re mine.” He stands up. “Deal?”
“Deal. But you’re not going to land it.”
“Watch me.”
He skates back. Gets distance. I watch him set up and part of me is genuinely worried he’s going to hurt himself.
He launches.
Gets more rotation this time, three-quarters maybe, but still lands wrong, stumbling badly.
“That doesn’t count,” I call.
“That was closer!”
“Closer doesn’t win the bet!”
He tries again. And again. Each attempt getting slightly better. Other skaters have stopped to watch. A small crowd forming.
On his fifth attempt, he actually gets the full rotation.
But he lands wrong and goes down hard.
I’m doubled over laughing, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
He gets up again, skating over wearing an expression of wounded pride. “The skates are sabotaging me.”
“The skates are fine. You just can’t do figure skating jumps.”
“I can do figure skating jumps.”
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
“One more try.”
I sigh. “Fine. One more. But if you hurt yourself, I’m leaving you here.”
He takes off. This time he’s not building as much speed. Being more careful.
He jumps.
Gets around.
And somehow, impossibly, stays on his feet.
It’s ugly. The landing is shaky and he has to fight for balance. But technically, he made the rotation.
The small crowd applauds. Rodriguez pumps his fist like he just won the Stanley Cup.
He skates over, triumphant. “I did it.”
“That was the ugliest jump I’ve ever seen.”
“But I landed it. Which means you owe me a kiss.”
“I really hate that you actually pulled that off.”
“No you don’t.” He takes my face in both hands, still breathing hard. “You love it.”
And he’s right. I do love it. Love that he tried five times just to win a stupid bet. Love that he doesn’t care that everyone’s watching him fail.
He kisses me right there on the ice, in front of the crowd that watched him wipe out five times.
Soft and sweet and tasting slightly like the peppermint chapstick he’s been wearing.
When he pulls back, he’s smiling. “Happy Valentine’s Day, JuJu.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
We skate for another hour. Just circling the rink, holding hands, occasionally racing. He tries to teach me how to stop like a hockey player. I show him basic ballet positions. He lifts me and spins us around until we’re both dizzy and laughing.
The sun starts to sink lower, the light going golden. The city lights flickering on.
“We should probably go,” I say reluctantly. “We need to shower and change before the rehearsal.”
“Five more minutes.”
“Rodriguez—”
“Please. Five more minutes.” His arms are around my waist from behind, his chin on my shoulder. “I want to remember this exactly how it is right now.”
So we stay. Five more minutes that turns into ten, skating slowly, not talking, just existing together while Toronto at nighttime lights around us.
And somewhere between the Hockey Hall of Fame and this moment right now, I’ve realized I’m not scared to try this with him.
I’m still terrified. Still worried about Monday. Still don’t know how this works when we go back to real life.
But I’m not running anymore.
I’m all in too.