“What’s that?” His eyes are focused on the road, but shift in my direction for a second.
“How long did you play hockey before deciding to become a coach?”
“Hockey?”
“Yeah.” I wave my hand toward him. “Don’t try and deny it. Youhave the build and competitive spirit. Not to mention you spilled the beans about coaching earlier today.”
For a moment, he looks completely baffled, and then his face splits into a grin that quickly turns into laughter. “I’m sorry, I just... hockey? Really?”
I cross my arms, feeling slightly defensive. “What’s so funny?”
His body shakes even harder, doubling over the steering wheel slightly. “Hockey,” he repeats, as though he’s savoring the word. “I hate to break it to you, Ava”—he takes a deep breath—“but I don’t play hockey. I tried it as a kid, but I was awful with handling the stick and found chasing the puck to be boring.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in. “Then if you don’t play hockey, what do you do?”
“I’m a figure skating coach.”
“Figure skating?”
“Uh-huh.” His voice wavers slightly.
I glance to him. Something isn’t right based on his tone of voice. “As in jumps, twirls, and the stuff you see on TV during the Olympics?”
“That’s the only kind I know of.”
“Now I feel like an idiot.” I face-palm. “I just assumed that with you being so fit and mentioning ice, you played hockey?—”
“You’renotan idiot, Ava,” he interrupts. “The stereotype has always been that figure skating is a women’s sport, and hockey is for men. I can see where you’d assume I was a former player. It’s happened before.”
The highway hums softly beneath the car as Fernando’s words hang in the air. I glance out the window, trying to process the new information. It feels strange to picture him—this tall, muscular guy—doing something as graceful and precise as figure skating.
“I’ve tried to ask about your job a bunch of times, and we always seemed to get interrupted. Did you do that on purpose?”
“Yes.” His hands tighten slightly on the wheel.
“Why?”
“It’s complicated,” he says, lowering his voice.
I turn toward him, frowning. “I don’t understand. You skate and you coach, what’s so complicated about that?”
He exhales slowly, his gaze still fixed on the road. “Let’s just say not everyone is as open-minded as you about it. I tend to keep a low profile.”
My mouth forms an O shape. I think about what he said earlier about stereotypes. “Were you bullied as a kid?”
“Sí, I was.” He fidgets in his seat. “Nowadays, nothing bothers me too much, but when I was younger it was tough. Nothing physical ever happened, but I’ve been called just about every insult you can think of.”
I blink, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice. “Seriously? That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “But it sticks with you, and after a while you begin to question your self-worth.”
I lean back in my seat, surprised by how vulnerable he’s being. For someone who seemed so confident all day, this is a side of Fernando I didn’t expect. I bite my lip, unsure of what to say. “But you stuck with it?”
“Yeah.” His lips curve into a faint smile. “Because I loved it. And I was good at it. The speed, the precision, the challenge of landing a jump perfectly. I wasn’t going to give it up just because of things people said.”
“That’s brave,” I say softly.
“I don’t know if I’d call it brave or being stubborn.”
