“Yes?” I said.
“Would you—I mean, if it’s not too much trouble…could you please sign this for me?”
She thrust something into my hands. A program from the 2009 Stars on Ice tour, with Heath and me on the cover.
“Sure,” I said. “Do you have something to write with?”
“Oh! No, I’m so sorry, I—”
“Here.” Heath took a pen from his bag and passed it to me.
“What’s your name?” I asked the girl.
“Madison. Madison Castro. My older sister took me to see the tour for my birthday. In Dallas, that’s where I’m from. Well, like twenty miles outside of Dallas.”
Once Madison conquered her fear of speaking to me, she couldn’t seem to shut up. Heath didn’t bother trying to hide his amusement, but she was too enraptured to notice.
“Seeing you skate is what made me want to become an ice dancer. I’m going to go to the Olympics one day, and—” She caught herself. “I mean, I hope I will.”
“I’m sure you will. And hopefully you’ll do much better than I did.” I handed the program back, my signature scrawled under her name. “Good luck this season, Madison.”
“Thank you!” She bounced off, beaming, the program clutched to her chest.
“Well, well,” Heath said. “Guess you’re a role model after all, Katarina Shaw.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling; if nothing else, Madison’s enthusiasm had shattered the uneasy silence between us.
“Where are you staying?” Heath asked. “Around here?”
“I found an Airbnb over by the beach.”
“Marina del Rey?”
I shook my head. “Playa.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Don’t tell me Heath Rocha, committed hater of Los Angeles, has turned native enough to express sincere and deeply held neighborhood beliefs.”
“Hey, I’m just looking out for my skating partner’s safety and well-being,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to get mowed down by a double stroller. It’s wild out there in MDR.”
“Next you’ll tell me you’ve gotten into hot yoga and juice cleanses.”
“Hot yoga is so last year. It’s all about SoulCycle now.” Heath smiled, and a stray curl fell across his forehead, shining in the waning sunlight. “So you want a ride home?”
“Don’t tell me you drive some obnoxious sports car now.”
“Worse.”
He gestured toward a small motorcycle parked alongside the curb. A black helmet with gold racing stripes hung from the handlebars.
“Seriously?” I said. “You’re abiker dude?”
“You want a ride or not?”
I hesitated. But what was the issue? We were colleagues. Colleagues could engage in friendly banter. Colleagues could give each other rides home.
Heath handed me the helmet and climbed onto the bike. I mounted the seat behind him, cinching my arms around his waist. We’d touched far more intimately during the training session, but that was work. This was…I wasn’t sure what it was.
