She’s sitting on a treatment table with her left ankle propped up, talking to Jake. Her hair is in that same sleek bun she always wears, not a single strand out of place.
I should keep walking. Should go home or go to the team lounge or literally anywhere that’s not here.
Instead I stop in the doorway.
Jake notices me first. “Rodriguez. You need something?”
“Just checking the schedule.” Smooth. Real convincing. “Wanted to make sure I’m cleared for afternoon skate.”
“You know you’re not.” Jake goes back to examining Juliette’sankle, his fingers pressing gently against the joint. “This is more swelling than I’d like to see. What did you do?”
“Nothing.” She still doesn’t look at me. Hasn’t even acknowledged I’m standing here.
“Juliette.”
“I went skating on Monday. Just the basics. Nothing intense.”
“Your definition of basics apparently included jumps.”
“One jump. Maybe two.”
Jake sighs this very long-suffering sigh. “You’re set back at least a week. Possibly more.”
Her face makes a little frown but she smooths it away so fast I almost miss it. “Okay.”
“I’m serious about this. No jumps. No intense training. If you keep pushing like this, you’re going to be looking at surgery instead of a few more weeks of PT.”
“I understand.”
But she doesn’t sound like she understands. She sounds like she’s agreeing because that’s what you do when medical professionals give you orders, and she’s already planning to ignore them.
I know because I’ve done the exact same thing for the past few months.
Jake starts wrapping her ankle and I know I should leave. But I’m still standing here, and she still hasn’t looked at me once, and something about the set of her jaw makes me want to say something just to see if she’ll even react to me.
“Bad week for skating, Ice Queen?” I offer.
She finally looks at me. And it’s not the arctic blast I’m expecting. There’s something almost soft at the corners of her mouth. Not a smile, but close.
“You could say that.” She tilts her head slightly. “Bad week for harassing figure skaters?”
I blink. Was that... a joke? Did Juliette Chastain just make a joke at me instead of telling me to go away?
“The worst,” I manage. “Very unrewarding. No one appreciates my efforts.”
“Tragic.”
Jake glances between us, like he’s witnessing a miracle. “Rodriguez, unless you actually need something?—”
“Right. Yeah. I’ll get out of your way.” I start backing toward the door, trying to play it cool. “Hope the ankle feels better, JuJu.”
I’m leavingfilm review that afternoon when I see her in the parking lot.
The winter air hits my face, cold and sharp. She’s getting into her car, moving carefully, favoring her wrapped ankle. She looks tired. Different than all the other times I’ve seen her. Her shoulders are hunched in a way I’ve never seen, her movements slower. Even from across the parking lot I can tell something’s off.
I should get in my own car and drive home and start the process of actually forgetting about her like I promised myself I would. This is stupid. I literally just told myself I was done. But she looks so... defeated. And I’m already halfway across the parking lot before I realize I’m doing it again.
“Hey,” I say when I’m close enough.
