“I can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute.”
“No way.”
“Way. I got really into it in high school. Needed something to do with my hands during competitions when I was nervous.”
“That’s actually really cool. Mine is way more useless.”
“What is it?”
“I can juggle. But only with food. Like, apples or oranges. If you give me actual juggling balls I’m terrible. But produce? I’m your guy.”
I laugh. “That is completely useless.”
“I told you. But it’s a great party trick.”
“When does juggling fruit come up at parties?”
“You’d be surprised. There’s always a moment where someone goes ‘does anyone have a weird talent’ and boom, ‘I’m your guy if you’ve got some oranges.’”
He talks about growing up and learning to skate at a mall rink when he was six. I tell him about teaching beginner classes and how satisfying it is when a kid finally lands their first jump. Hecalls the kids ‘ankle-biters’ and asks if I miss Toronto. I ask for stories about his teammates and what it’s like on roadtrips.
It’s light and comfortable. Not deep or heavy or anything that requires me to examine my feelings about Garrett or my ankle or any of the other things I’m actively avoiding.
“So,” he says eventually, checking his phone. “I have to ask. Why did you finally say yes? Besides the boyfriend thing. You could have kept saying no.”
I consider lying again. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—genuinely curious, not pushy—that makes me want to be honest.
“You looked different yesterday. When you asked. Less—” I search for the word. “Less confident. More real.”
“The knee brace really completed the look, huh?”
“It wasn’t that. It was—” I stop, trying to articulate it. “You’ve been a persistent, charming guy who won’t take no for an answer. And yesterday you just looked human. Like maybe you were actually asking because you wanted to, not because it was a challenge.”
He’s quiet, his fingers drum softly against his cup. “That’s fair. I probably did treat it like a challenge at first. The girl who kept saying no. But somewhere along the way it stopped being about winning and started being about actually wanting to get to know you.”
“When?”
“When I saw you teaching those kids. You were so patient with them. One little girl fell and started crying and you crouched down and said something that made her laugh. And I thought—” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “I thought I wanted to know what you said. What made her laugh. What you’re like when you’re not shutting me out.”
My throat tightens. “Oh.”
“Too much? I’m being too much, aren’t I? Almardon says I always do this.”
“No. It’s—that’s nice actually.”
“Just nice?”
“I’m not good at compliments. I’m working on it.”
“I’ll take nice.” He checks his phone again. “We should probably head out soon. Don’t you have lessons at four?”
“Yeah. And you have PT.”
“The joy of being broken.” He stands, testing his knee carefully, his hand bracing against the table. “Thanks for this. For giving me a chance.”
“You’re welcome.”
The driveto the facility takes about twenty-five minutes with traffic. Rodriguez immediately connects his phone to my car’s Bluetooth.
