“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making a playlist for the drive.”
“We’re in the car for twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes is plenty of time for a carefully curated musical experience.” He’s scrolling through his phone. “Do you like Save Divinity?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really listen to music outside of skating.”
“You don’t listen to music?”
“I listen to music. Just not like—casually. It’s always for programs or training.”
“That’s tragic. Okay, new mission. I’m introducing you to music that has nothing to do with skating or triple axels or whatever.”
“Rodriguez—”
“Too late. It’s happening.”
A song starts playing through my speakers, something I vaguely recognize but couldn’t name if my life depended on it.
“This band is basically if Fall Out Boy and The Cab had a baby,” he says. “Classic. Iconic. Required listening for functioning in society.”
“Required by who?”
“By me. The authority on all things music-related.”
“That’s a self-appointed title.”
“The best titles always are.”
I can’t stop myself from grinning, watching the road as we merge into traffic. He keeps up a running dialogue on every song that plays, telling me useless facts about the bands, making terrible jokes, singing along off-key to certain parts. His voice is surprisingly good when he’s not trying to be funny, rich and warm in the small space. He taps his fingers against his thigh in rhythm.
It’s so silly and so him. And I reluctantly realize I’m having fun.
When was the last time I had fun like this? Not performing, not the satisfaction of landing a jump or teaching a good lesson. Just fun. Laughing at stupid jokes. Being present in a moment.
“You know what?” he says as we’re pulling into the facility parking lot. “We should exchange numbers. For friend purposes.”
“Okay. Hand me your phone.”
We swap phones and I pull up his contacts, start typing my information. First name, last name, the way I organize everything.
When I get my phone back, I look at what he entered.
“Really?” I hold up the screen. “’Romeo Rodriguez’?”
He’s grinning, completely unrepentant. “What? It’s perfect.”
“This joke has never been funny. Not once.”
“Romeo and Juliet will never not be hilarious.”
“I’ve had to hear this as a bad pickup line since ninth grade when we studied Shakespeare. ‘Oh you’re Juliet? Where’s your Romeo?’ It’s not clever.”
“I think it’s a little clever.”
“It’s not.” I start to edit it, my thumb hovering over the backspace. “What’s your actual first name?”
