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The score is still tied at zero in the third period. John is on Corbin’s heels, who is weaving through defenders like someone making a rug.

“He’s got wheels tonight!” Oakley shouts, cupping her hands over her mouth as Corbin angles toward the net. John snags it away at the last minute, and Oakley stomps her foot in frustration.

I yell, “Go John, Go Corbin.”

“Pick a side, sister,” Oakley snaps. Teasing.

My pulse climbs to new heights as John passes on the left to Hawley, and he takes a shot only for it to clang against the goal. Somehow, the Rattlers get control of the puck and pass it backward to John on the other side of the center line. He quickly skates backward, drawing the Notes players toward him. As soon as they get within a stride or two, he snaps his wrist, and the puck sails diagonally right into Palici’s waiting stick. He rushes forward, dribbling through the Notes defenders, faking he’sgoing left. With power and precision, he strikes the puck hard, and the Notes goalie can’t stop it.

The horn sounds, and the Rattlers have taken the first game of the series. John’s team skates into a circle, congratulating Palici, but then he glides gracefully on his blades to the partition, waving for me to come down.

Since the Notes lose, the decibel level is next to nothing. When I get down there, he takes his glove off, pressing it against the glass. “Come around to the opening.” He points to the other side of the arena. Then he skates off furiously to the same place. I lose track of him as I say excuse me a million times to people staying in their seats. That’s weird. Why aren’t people leaving? It takes me at least twenty minutes to finally get to the other side and Corbin’s waiting for me.

“Why aren’t you in the locker room?” I ask.

“Because you’re needed on center ice,” he says as he tilts his head, gesturing toward the ice. The purple carpet marks the path to the arena’s focal point.

“What?” I ask, looking out.

Corbin extends his elbow. “I’ll walk you out.” Butterflies spread their wings not just in my stomach but in my veins with nerves when I hook my arm through his and take the first step onto the carpet.

I stand in the center, slowly turning, surveying the crowd, and wondering if I’m the center of a joke. Then my eyes focus on the gorgeous man who looks like he should grace the cover of a magazine. His stubble trimmed perfectly. His suit tailored to his athletic form and a smile that lights me up from the inside out. John’s confidence has always been attractive, although I used to tell him he was too cocky for his own good. Perhaps he was. But I should have known by the way he listened and how he never pushed me that there was so much more he didn’t let people see.

John erases the distance between us, confidence evident in his posture.

He swings me around in his arms, and when he kisses me, Irealize my leg is bent like in those old photos where boy kisses girl. “How do you get more beautiful every time I see you?” he asks, mumbling over the shell of my ear.

“I guess I have that glow people talk about.”

“Maybe. But I think it’s because you’re wearing my jersey. My cock is so hard thinking about what I want to do with you.”

“Stop it. You know I hate that word.”

He sets me back down, taking a small microphone out that lawyers use to dictate or influencers use on social media.

My brows dip. “What’s going on?”

Reaching in his pocket once more, he holds something in his hand. “The last time I was on this ice was when your Mamaw passed away during the playoffs. And I knew this needed to be the place.”

He lets go of my hand to open the ring box and drops to one knee.

“John, what are you doing?”

“I’m asking the woman of dreams, the m….” he catches himself, then continues. “My future, the person who makes me want to do cheerleading stunts and play gin rummy with to marry me.

Becca Mae Shearer, will you marry me and spend the rest of your life with me?”

John’s cheeks pinken from the cold air, but his eyes are warm and unwavering. My heart leaps as he reaches for my hand, and memories of his first proposal plays in my head—his laughter, his touch, the nakedness. “Will you marry me?”

I almost burst into laughter since I already said yes while in a tangled mess of limbs and remember that we would need a public story, and we’ll keep the original proposal between us.

“Don’t leave me hanging, Bex,” he says, arching a brow as the seconds tick by.

Just as he shifts to stand, I launch myself at him, knocking him on his back and sending us both sprawling on the Notes purple carpet. “Yes, I’ll marry you!”

We’re both laughing so hard, it echoes through the rink, thanks to the itty-bitty microphone in his hand.

He grins up at me, his eyes sparkling with love as he teases, “I didn’t know I would need a helmet to ask for your hand in marriage.”