Chapter 33 Juliette
JULIETTE
Romeo is a terrible patient.
Not terrible in the demanding, whiny sense. Terrible in the I-can’t-sit-still-for-five-consecutive-seconds sense. Like a golden retriever who’s been told the park is closed forever.
It’s been three days since his concussion and he’s currently sitting across from me in the athletic training room, staring at the wall while his leg jiggles up and down with barely contained energy.
I’m trying to finish a report for Marnie and he’s trying not to vibrate out of his skin with boredom.
“Stop plotting,” I say without looking up from my laptop.
“I’m not plotting.”
He’s absolutely plotting. Probably about sneaking onto the ice when no one’s watching. His eyes keep drifting toward the rink like a compass pointing north.
“I will tell Marnie.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He slumps further in his chair and sighs dramatically, radiating misery so intensely I can feel it from across the room.
I last another ten minutes before I give in and close my laptop. I cross to where he’s sprawled out looking like the world’s most pathetic professional athlete.
“You know the rules. No skating for two weeks. Doctor’s orders.”
“What if I just—”
“No.”
“But—”
“Romeo.” I lean down with my hands on the armrests until we’re eye to eye. “You have a brain injury. Your brain is injured. Do you understand what that means?”
“That I’m bored out of my mind?”
“That you could seriously hurt yourself if you’re not careful.” I soften slightly because he does look genuinely miserable. “Two weeks. Then you’re cleared. You can handle two weeks.”
His expression shifts and goes soft in that way that makes my stomach flip. “You worried about me, Ice Queen?”
“Someone has to be since you clearly aren’t worried about yourself.”
I kiss him before he can respond.
“I’ll behave. For you.”
“Sure you will.”
I go back to my laptop. He goes back to radiating boredom at the wall.
Two weeks later - April 7
“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Romeo asks for what has to be the third time, phone pressed to his ear as he paces in his bedroom. “They’re really the exact ones?”
I’m getting ready in the bathroom, but I can hear him through the door. He’s been weird all day. Jumpy and secretive and checking his watch every five minutes.
“For the hundredth time, yes,” a male voice says loud enough that I can hear it through the phone. “The exact blades, original weight distribution, not the redesigned ones with the reinforced edge you requested. Exact replicas of the discontinued model, but dare I say, better.”
My hands still on my mascara wand.
Blades?
“They have to be perfect,” Romeo insists. “You don’t understand. This woman can spot a toe pick flaw from across the rink while blindfolded.”
“Romeo,” the voice says with exaggerated patience, “I’ve been crafting custom blades for Olympic athletes for fifteen years. If I say they’re perfect, they’re goddamned perfect.”
Custom blades. For me. For my birthday.
I set down the mascara and move closer to the door.
“But—”
“If you ask me one more time, I’m selling them to the Rangers’ center who’s been begging for custom blades for his figure skater girlfriend.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Romeo gasps, genuinely horrified.
“Try me. Now, are you picking these up today or not?”
“Yes. Definitely yes. Thank you.”
He hangs up and I hear him let out a long breath, like he’s been holding it the entire conversation.
I finish getting ready with a smile I can’t quite suppress, my mind spinning. Custom blades. He remembered.
Months ago, back in January, maybe early February, I’d mentioned in passing that my old blades had been discontinued.
The ones I used during my competitive days.
How I’d been making do with an inferior replacement model for years but it wasn’t the same.
Just a throwaway comment while we were having lunch.
And he remembered.
Dinner is at a seafood place downtown with windows overlooking the water. The kind of restaurant that requires reservations weeks in advance.
Romeo is fidgeting.
He’s trying to hide it by keeping his hands busy with his water glass, his silverware, the edge of the tablecloth. But I can see the nervous energy radiating off him.
“You okay?” I ask after the waiter takes our order.
“Yeah. Great. Why?”
“You seem anxious.”
“I’m not anxious.”
“You’ve reorganized your silverware three times.”
He looks down at his perfectly aligned fork and knife, then back at me with a sheepish smile. “Okay, maybe a little anxious.”
“Why?”
“Because I want tonight to be perfect.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “It’s your birthday. You deserve perfect.”
My throat goes tight. “It’s already perfect. I’m here with you.”
“Yeah, but I have something planned and I’m worried you won’t like it.”
“Romeo.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m going to love whatever it is because it’s from you.”
“You say that now.”
We eat dinner and he tells me about practice, about the playoff push, about how the team is gelling at exactly the right time.
I tell him about my plans for the summer before grad school starts.
Maybe picking up more teaching hours at the rink, maybe finally taking that anatomy refresher course Marnie keeps recommending.
He listens like every word is important, like my plans for the future matter as much to him as they do to me.
After dessert he hands me the wrapped box that I pretended not to see him carry in. It’s long and flat, wrapped in silver paper with a bow that looks professionally done.
“Happy birthday, JuJu.”
I take the box with hands that are suddenly shaking.
“Should I open it now or wait until—”
“Now. Definitely now. I’ve been sitting on this secret for two weeks and if you make me wait any longer I’m going to combust.”
I laugh and carefully peel back the paper. Inside is a black box embossed with gold lettering I don’t recognize. I lift the lid and my breath catches.
Skate blades. Custom skate blades in rose gold with my initials engraved near the heel. But not just any blades. These are exact replicas of my old competition blades, the ones that were discontinued years ago.
“Romeo.” His name comes out as barely a whisper.
“The blade guy I found said they’re better than the originals,” he says quickly, words tumbling out nervous and fast. “Same design but with modern materials. Lighter but stronger. And the rose gold was my idea because I thought, I don’t know, I thought you’d like it better than plain silver.
But if you don’t like the color we can change it, he said he could redo them in whatever—”
“Romeo.” I look up at him and there are tears on my face. “How did you, when did you—”
“You mentioned them once. Back in January, I think? You were complaining about your current blades. Said they didn’t have the same edge control as your old ones.
” He’s watching me carefully, trying to read my reaction.
“I tracked down the specifications and found this guy through one of the Olympic coaches. He’s apparently the best in the country for custom figure skating blades. ”
“These must have cost—”
“Don’t worry about that.” He reaches across the table and wipes a tear from my cheek. “You gave up competitive skating. You gave up your dream. The least I can do is give you back a piece of it.”
More tears fall and I don’t even try to stop them. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you like them.”
“I love them.” I run my fingers over the engraving, over the perfect curve of the blade. “I love them so much. I love—” I look up at him. “Thank you. This is the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.”
His smile could power the entire city. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I stand up and walk around the table, not caring that we’re in a fancy restaurant, not caring that people are probably staring. I lean down and kiss him putting everything I can’t quite say into it.
When I pull back, he’s looking at me like I hung the moon.
“Best birthday ever?” he asks hopefully.
“Best birthday ever.”
Three days later.
The team family skate is Marnie’s idea.
“End of season tradition,” she explains as we walk into the facility together. “Before playoffs start and everyone gets too stressed to remember they actually like each other. Partners and kids are invited. It’s very wholesome.”
“Wholesome,” I repeat skeptically.
“Okay, it usually devolves into the guys showing off for their significant others and at least one person ends up in the boards. But it starts wholesome.”
The rink is already crowded when we arrive. Kids skating in wobbly circles. Partners chatting in groups. The team scattered across the ice in various states of actually skating versus standing around talking.
And I’m wearing my new blades for the first time.
They feel like coming home.
Romeo sees me immediately and skates over.
“How do they feel?”
“Like magic.” I push off quickly, testing the edges. They bite into the ice perfectly. “Your guy wasn’t kidding. These are better than the originals.”
“Good.” He’s watching me with this dopey look on his face. “Skate for me?”
“Romeo, I haven’t done a program in months—”
“I don’t care about a program. I just want to see you skate the way you love to skate. No teaching. No holding back. Just you.”
I look at him. At the genuine request in his eyes, at the way he’s asking me to share this part of myself. And I want to. I actually want to.
“Okay.”
I skate to the center of the ice and take a breath. Close my eyes. Let muscle memory take over.
It’s not a full program. Just elements strung together. A spiral sequence that stretches my flexibility. A combination spin that would have been impressive six months ago but is probably sloppy now. Footwork that makes the new blades sing.
When I open my eyes, half the team is watching.
Romeo is leaning on the boards with his arms crossed and a smile on his face that makes me feel like I just won Olympic gold.
I skate over to him, slightly breathless, probably blushing.
“Rusty,” I say.