“She’s good,” the other skater says, leaning over to watch too. “Like, really good. She was training for nationals, I think.”
“Is she local?”
“No, Canada. Toronto, maybe?” She hands my phone back. “Why do you want to use this for social media?”
“Just thought it would be cool. Showing different athletes using the same facilities.”
“You should definitely ask her first. She’s a bit of a—” She breaks off and glances at her friend. “You should just ask her.”
“Yeah. I will. Thanks.”
I walk away with a name and no plan for what to do with it.
Juliette Chastain.
One week later,I go back to the practice rink.
I tell myself it’s to ask about using the footage. That’s the professional thing to do. Get permission, be respectful and all that.
I’m lying to myself and I know it.
She’s there again, running through what looks like the same program. I wait until she takes a water break and then walk onto the bench.
“Hey,” I call out.
She looks over and I see the exact moment she recognizes me from last week. Her expression doesn’t exactly warm up. “Hi.”
“I’m Rodriguez. I play for the Puckaneers.”
“…And?”
Okay. Tough crowd. I didn’t expect her to ask for a signature or anything but she seems pretty irritated that I’m even speaking to her. Against my better judgment I keep going because I’ve made it this far and at least she’s conversing with me.
“I saw you skating last week,” I continue. “You’re really good.”
“Thank you.” She’s already turning back to the ice.
“Wait. I actually wanted to ask you something. I took some video—just like thirty seconds—and I was wondering if I could post itonline. Community athletes content. But I wanted to check with you first.”
That gets her attention. “You filmed me?”
“It wasn’t even a minute. From far away. Nothing identifying or anything. And I can edit it to look pretty cool.” This is going badly. “But, I mean, I can delete it if you want. I just thought it would be cool to show different sports using the same facilities.”
“Delete it.”
“Yeah. Okay. No problem.” I open my photos and delete the video right in front of her. Gone. “Deleted.”
“Great. Anything else?”
There are about a hundred things I want to say. I want to ask what that jump felt like to land, how long she’s been skating, and if she feels the same way about ice that I do.
Instead I only say, “No. That’s it. Sorry for interrupting your practice.”
She sets her water bottle on the shelf and skates away without looking back.
I leave the rink feeling like I just crashed and burned.
I can’t stop thinkingabout her.
