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 tobet? 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.”
