“I think that’s a stereotype.”
“Really? Shit. Okay, no maple conversation. What about hockey? She’s a figure skater, that’s basically the same ice?—”
“I don’t think figure skaters like being compared to hockey players.”
“Why not? We’re both athletes. We both appreciate the ice. We both?—”
“Fall down professionally?”
“I don’t fall down. I occasionally make controlled contact with the playing surface.” He takes a sip of his coffee, steering with one hand. “You’re quiet today.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Yeah, but this is like, extra quiet.” He glances at me. “You good?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You’re always tired. That’s your whole thing. Tired and quiet and weirdly good at stopping pucks.” He turns toward the facility. “You sure you don’t want to talk about anything?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Okay, but if there was?—”
“There isn’t.”
“—you would tell me, right? Because I’m your best friend and I’m emotionally available and I give great advice.”
“You’re trying to win over a woman by bringing her coffee she didn’t ask for.”
“That’s different. That’s romantic.” He pulls into the lot. “One day she’s going to realize I’m the best thing that ever happened to her and she’s going to feel so stupid for making me work this hard.”
“Or she’s going to file a restraining order.”
“Pessimist.” He parks. “You coming or what?”
I look at my black coffee. I’ve had maybe three sips and it’s not getting better. But I can’t throw it away in front of him because then he’ll know, and for some reason I don’t want to give him that. Not when he already watched me fumble my entire personality in front of her. Not when I’ve already kissed the girl behind the counter and I need to figure out how to go back there without him.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m coming.”
Rodriguez is out of the car before I’ve even unbuckled, maple latte in hand, practically running for the front doors of the rink.
The figure skaters are finishing up, there’s maybe six of them standing around chatting. Rodriguez spots Juliette immediately, unlacing her skates on the bench.
“How do I look?” He asks, smoothing back his hair with one hand.
“Like a guy who’s about to get rejected again.”
“Your support means everything to me.”
He’s already walking toward her, latte extended like a peace offering she’s made clear she’s not interested in. I hang back with my terrible coffee and watch him do the smile, the head tilt, the whole Rodriguez routine that works on literally everyone except this one specific woman.
Juliette looks at the cup. Then at him. It seems like maybe today’s the day, but then she shakes her head and picks up her bag and walks toward the locker room before he can respond.
He trudges back holding the latte, head down and dejected.
“She said she can’t,” he says, shoving it at me. “Not won’t.Can’t. That means something, right?”
“Maybe.” I take a sip because I need something to wash the taste of burnt dirt out of my mouth and it’s actually really good, sweet but not too sweet. “This is delicious, by the way.”
