Page 64 of The Amazing Date

Back-to-back physical challenges after a long day of travel and racing around New York will put Ronnie and Thelma at a disadvantage. But I don’t count them out—they’ve surprised everyone countless times already.

“How are you holding up?” I check in on Rylee, who is pushing off her board again. For every three short strokes she makes, I match her with one long one. She is beaming, joy flowing through every pore of her body.

“I think I’m getting the hang of this. You may have turned me into a skater girl.” The image of her in torn skate jeans hanging low on her hips, a loose-fitting tank top, and a gold bandana tying up her hair flashes in my mind.

“Maybe they’ll let us keep these boards when this is over,” I joke as we approach the exit to the park. We both go silent as we have to navigate around an influx of pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages that congregate near the entrance to the park. I slow just in time as Rylee makes an awkward cut to her left to avoid a kid, her board hitting a sewer grate. Rylee springs forward off the board, attempting to catch her balance. Between the sudden turn and the speed, I know she won’t be successful. I leap toward her, arms outstretched, and pull her toward me, rolling so I land on my back, hoping to cushion the fall.

My T-shirt pushes up, and the rough concrete scrapes my lower back. I ignore the discomfort and focus on Rylee, who has her head pressed against my chest. “You okay?”

“Thanks to you, Superman. I didn’t know you could fly.”

Relief spreads through my body as I realize she is okay. “Only for you, Lois.” I lean up and steal a quick kiss. Our laughs ease the concern of the handful of pedestrians who stopped to check on us.

Pinpricks of pain cause me to look at my leg. Dots of blood splotch down my left leg, the side that took the brunt of the fall.

“You’re bleeding,” Rylee says as we both straighten up. I twist to get a better look at the extent. “Oh my god, Roberto, your back.”

I look over my shoulder and twist, attempting to see the damage. Another wave of stings hit me, followed by a warm liquid I know is not sweat. Rylee lifts the bottom of my T-shirt, concern etched on her face. “You did a number on your lower back. Scraped it up pretty bad. It’s bleeding, nothing deep, but that’s got to be uncomfortable. We need to get it taken care of.”

I shake my head. The race has a phone number to call for nonthreatening injuries. They can dispatch a medic to meet you and get you back on your way. Calling them, however, forces you to stay in place. There is no telling how long it would take for them to arrive. Time we don’t have the luxury of wasting.

“I’m fine. I’ll splash some water on it.” I don’t wait for her to talk me out of it as I stomp off to retrieve my board. A cute six-year-old girl is holding it alongside her mother, who is digging in her purse.

“Here you go, mister,” the kid says, handing me the board. “Are you okay?”

I nod and take a knee to be at eye level with the adorable kid. “Thank you, that was very kind of you.”

The mother beams down at me, a prideful smile on her face. “I have some Bactine,” she states, pushing a green-and-white tube of antiseptic spray in my direction. “Scrapes and falls are a mother’s specialty.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking the small tube.

The little girl points behind me. “I think your friend may need some help too.”

Concern floods my chest, and I turn to see a suddenly despondent Rylee holding her board up. The front right wheel that had gotten wedged in the sewer grate is bent at a forty-five-degree angle. There’s a look of dread on her face.

“I think I’ve broken my skateboard.”

I don’t need to touch it to know that she is right. There is no way she’ll be able to ride that board, and there is nowhere to get it repaired, at least not in a timely manner.

Tears threaten to escape her eyes as she lowers her chin to her chest and steps toward me. I pull her into a hug. I’d do anything to protect her. I’d do anything to not see her cry. But her board is broken, and I can’t fix that. After all we have overcome, the writing is on the wall.

We are out of the race.

* * *

The cool ointment of the Bactine provides immediate relief to my lower back and leg, the cool, comforting sting easing my concerns about infection. I take the tube from Rylee, who just finished applying it. Giving her an activity gave her a moment to compose herself as I reread the race clues for a viable solution.

“Thank you once again,” I say, handing the tube back to the mother, who sat on a park bench with her daughter, sipping her Starbucks. The six-year-old wanders over to the curb, eyes glued in fascination to the line of horse-drawn carriages.

“You’re welcome. Sorry about the skateboard. I think there’s a bike shop on Seventy-Third that may take a look at it. Not sure if they are open at this hour. If not, the subway is only a block away.”

I nod. “We can’t take the subway. We’re in a race and have to travel by skateboard.”

With the mention of the word “race,” the little girl’s ears perk up. “Like the soapbox derby, Mom?”

The mother’s smile returns, and she pats her daughter on the head. “Not quite, dear.”

I turn toward the little girl, my expression causing her to continue. “In camp, we had a soapbox derby race.” She reaches for my board, which I release to her. She places it on the ground and then sits on it. She bends her knees and places the soles of her feet flat on the front of the board, balancing her hands on the side. “I’m smaller than my friend Bianca, so I got to be in the soapbox, and she pushed me. We won first place.”

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