Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
This man.
This ridiculous, stubborn, giant hunk of a man.
I lift my wine glass, but instead of toasting immediately, I tilt my head and look at him with as much sincerity as I can without grinning like a complete love-sick fool.
“Yes,” I say, glass still raised. “Yes, I would love to date you.”
Our glasses clink.
“To us,” he murmurs.
“To us.” A sweet sip of wine warms my tongue. “You realize this is the craziest ‘how did the two of you meet?’ story of all time, even though you did not have to bribe a Zamboni driver and put my brother in a bow tie to win me over.”
His dimple flashes. “Shit, then I have some bad news for you…”
My brow furrows. “Bad news?”
“Yeah. If you think the Zamboni was over the top, then you’re going to hate this.” That dimple of his makes an appearance, all smug and unapologetic.
“I’m so confused! Just tell me.”
“Patience,” he says, pointing toward the massive screen above us. “This is what’s going to play at the next home game.”
I blink. “What is?”
My confusion deepens as I twist my body, contorting so I can squint up at the Jumbotron.
It comes to life.
A cartoon version of us pops onto the screen. At least, I think it’s supposed to be us: a big dude skating around and a small blonde wearing a headband, running away from him… Who else could it possibly be?
Cartoon Aaron says something, and a speech bubble pops up, while cartoon Juliette rolls her eyes.
Then he drops to one knee. And even though we’re animated, this moment is one I will never forget. Especially when the speech bubble reads:
WILL YOU DATE ME?!
A giant speech bubble pops up above cartoon Juliette:
YES!
Confetti. Balloons.
It is adorable.
My eyes widen. “You are not putting that on the Jumbotron in front of thousands of people.”
Aaron laughs. “Guess you’ll have to be there to find out.”
At the same time, the Zamboni engine rumbles back to life and begins making a slow, deliberate pass along the boards, staying at the far end, but causing a disruption just the same.
Then, before either of us can say another word, a sudden, triumphant HONK blasts through the arena, echoing off the empty seats, high, steel trusses and tin roof.
We both jump half out of our seats.
The Zamboni driver stands in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other slamming the horn.
HOOOONK.
He gives us an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and one last celebratory honk for good measure, before steering the machine in a slow victory lap around center ice.
“I think he thought you were proposing,” I say at last, once my heart rate has gone back to normal.
Aaron watches the Zamboni complete its celebratory lap, then looks back at me, one brow lifting slowly.
“Babe, when I propose, you’ll know.”
EPILOGUE
AARON
Why am I so fucking nervous?
I’ve played in front of thousands of screaming fans and was able to block them out, but right now I’m a goddamn mess.
I glance to where Juliette stands near the makeshift refreshment table, grinning at something the tour guide is saying, her pretty face beaming at me.
She’s wearing jeans. Her sensible flats. Ice Wolves sweatshirt with a prim collar peeking out of the crewneck, hair slicked back, small bun at the nape and gold hoop earrings hanging from her lobes.
Damn she’s pretty.
I shake my head—focus, dude.
It’s Team Day with the Ice Wolves, which means the stadium is crawling with elementary school-aged kids in matching T-shirts, eager but exhausted chaperons, and sticky fingers and faces pressing against all the glass. They’re toured the locker room, walked past the penalty box, and watched the Zamboni take a lap around the ice.
Now it’s my turn.
The kids are in the community room and I volunteered to entertain them because there’s been something weighing on my mind and heart, that I won’t be able to let go until I’ve gotten it off my chest. And considering it makes Juliette’s ovaries explode (her words, not mine) to see me interact with kids, this felt like the perfect way to say what I need to say.
Knowing they’ll love to see my hockey gear up close after my presentation, I leave my shoulder pads next to the chair at the front of the room and rest my stick against it. I set my face mask on the ground, too, before unceremoniously plopping down and surveying the little faces. My audience.
My co-conspirators.
So many giddy expressions, big, curious doe eyes, ponytails and juice-stained faces. All of them waiting for the big, bad Ice Wolf to begin.
The hand of a little boy sitting cross-legged on the floor shoots up. Without waiting for me to call on him, he asks, “When are we starting?”
I shift on the chair, and it creaks in protest from the weight of my giant body. “Yes, my little dude, we already have.”
“Nuh-uh.” He disagrees with a loud sigh. “This is the most boring part of the field trip. All you’ve done is stare at that lady.”