Okay, I watch the Instagram stories. But I’m not seeking her out in person and that’s what counts.
Then one afternoon in early November, I’m coming out of a team meeting and nearly run into her in the hallway. Literally almost collide because I’m looking at my phone and not where I’m going.
“Sorry—” I start, then see who it is. “Oh. Hey.”
“Hi.” She sidesteps me and keeps walking.
That’s it. No anger or annoyance. Just complete indifference.
And I finally get it. She’s not playing hard to get. She’s not testing me. She just genuinely does not care that I exist.
So I stop.
I stop finding excuses to be where she is. Stop rehearsing things to say if I run into her. Stop checking her Instagram every day.
I’m not that guy. I won’t be the creep who can’t take no for an answer.
Even if I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked skating that day in September. Even if I still want to know what made her smile like that after landing that beautiful jump.
Some things aren’t meant to be.
The season kicksinto high gear. We’re playing well, I’m getting decent ice time, and I mostly manage to not think about Juliette Chastain.
Mostly.
Then I wreck my knee in a game against Vancouver.
It happens fast. I’m chasing the puck into the corner and their defenseman hits me from behind just as I plant my foot to turn. I feel something give in my knee—a pop then a lightning bolt of pain, white hot and nauseating—and then I’m down on the ice, cold seeping through my uniform. For a second I can’t even yell, can’t breathe, just lie there with my cheek against the ice while my brain tries to catch up to what my knee already knows: I’m fucked.
The MRI confirms it. Grade two MCL sprain. I’m suddenly faced with six weeks minimum before I can even think about skating again, plus physical therapy three times a week, plus gradual return to play protocol.
I’m out until late January at the earliest. Maybe February.
The knee brace becomes my newest fashion accessory and suddenly I have way too much time to think and way too much time to wander the facility with nothing better to do than bother people.
1
JULIETTE
Early-December
I’m sittingin the lobby, in-between classes, scrolling through my phone without really looking at it, when I hear the uneven thump-stomp of someone approaching and my stomach does this stupid little flip because I know that sound, I’ve heard it three times this week already.
Please keep walking. Please keep walking. Please?—
“You look as bored as I feel.”
Dammit.
I refuse to look up from my phone. “I’m working.”
“You’re watching eight-year-olds eat it.” Rodriguez sits down next to me. “That’s not working, it’s entertainment.”
I finally glance over at him and he’s staring at me with that cheeky grin that he’s been using on me since September, like his persistence is charming instead of annoying. The knee brace is huge and keeps his leg stuck out at an awkward angle, velcroed over his gray joggers.
It’s not charming. It’s definitely not charming. Okay, it’s possiblya little charming and I hate that my body seems to have its own opinion about this.
“My next class starts in twenty minutes,” I say, looking back at my phone even though the screen has gone dark and I’m just staring at my own reflection now.
