Page 20 of Icing the Cougar (Hockey USA Collection #7)

Jasper

The hall behind the rink is a wind tunnel of nerves.

I’ve been in this back corridor a hundred times, always with my head full of game strategy or the memory of last week’s bruises, but never like this.

This time, my hands are shaking so bad I can barely lace my left shoe.

My heart’s working double time against my ribs, like it’s not sure if I’m about to fight, bolt, or puke.

I take a knee and rip the tape between my teeth, wrapping my ankle tighter than I need to. A rink staffer rolls by with a cart full of folding chairs and gives me a look. I ignore him. I’m not ready for spectators yet, not even the paid kind.

In the wings, they’ve set up the silk rig.

It’s not a full trapeze, but a glossy blue-and-white fabric, hoisted and locked down to the old center ice rigging.

It looks out of place next to the battered benches and the half-melted rubber mats, but that’s the point.

I make myself look at it, just to prove I’m not chickening out.

My skate bag sits open on the bench beside me.

I palm the ring box, flip it open for the hundredth time, then close it again.

The ring is nothing fancy. It’s plain and more about not slicing up anyone’s face during sex than about diamonds.

It’s heavy as hell for something so small.

I shove it in my athletic pants pocket and zip up the zipper to ensure it’s safe keeping.

I push the bench with my foot, rolling back to sit hard. My palms are wet. My jersey, still fresh-printed with my number, sticks to the sweat pooling down my back even though it’s freezing in here.

Across the hall, through a triangle of curtains, I can see them sitting in the first rows.

Nova is at her spot in the front, curly hair up in a bun.

She’s got Trinity by the arm, steering her to the reserved row right against the glass.

Trinity doesn’t know what’s happening, but Nova’s done a hell of a job getting her here. I owe her big time.

I check the time on my phone, then kill it and drop it in the bag. No distractions. I force three slow breaths and focus on the show ahead and set my shoulders. I’ve never been more ready and less ready at once.

Another tech waves me forward, the show cue. The announcer is already in the booth, voice tuned to “majestic” setting. The rink goes dark, save for the heavy spotlight dead center on the logo.

I roll my neck once, twice, then stand and yank the jersey straight. I grab the microphone a sound tech hands me on my way out onto the ice.

The first step onto the rubber mat is a little off.

My legs don’t want to work the way they should.

Then I hit the gate, and the cold of the open rink air shocks my lungs.

The stands are only half full, but the sound rolls like the place is sold out.

I hear kids yelling my number, parents calling for autographs, the distant thud of some brat kicking the Plexi.

All of it is nothing compared to the black hole of attention waiting for me in row one, seat three.

I walk out, slow, taking my place at center ice under the spotlight. The crowd starts to hush, voices trailing off as the overhead cuts out. It’s just me and the center logo and the long ribbon of silk drooping like a challenge. I can’t see her face yet, but I know she’s watching.

The PA booms, “Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to center ice for a special performance by Jasper Wright!”

Some applause, mostly confusion. I don’t care. I can’t feel my hands.

I stop walking directly beneath the silk. It’s lower than it should be for a pro performance, which is good, because there’s a non-zero chance I’m about to humiliate myself. I clear my throat and bring the wireless mic up to my mouth.

“I, uh… I guess I’m supposed to say something,” I start, and my voice booms bigger than I expect. People laugh, just a little. I see kids nudging their moms.

My eyes find hers through the glare. Trinity. She’s not smiling, but she’s not leaving either. I grip the mic and try to remember what I practiced in my head all night.

“I don’t really know how to do this,” I say. “Not the talking part. Or the… ‘public performance’ part.” I gesture up at the silk, get another ripple of nervous laughter. “But I guess that’s what you do when you want to show someone they mean everything to you.”

The rink is so quiet I can hear the banners fluttering up in the rafters.

“I, uh…” I pause, and the silence stretches out. “This is for Trinity Harper. The woman I’ve spent the last year trying to keep up with, and who’s spent the last year trying to show me what it means to be better than I am.”

A wave of whispering in the crowd. Kids don’t care, but the adults know drama when they hear it.

“She’s probably going to kill me for doing this in front of everyone,” I say, and I see her mouth twitch, just a little. “But she deserves a guy who’s willing to make an ass of himself. On and off the ice.”

I take a breath, and my hands don’t shake quite as much.

“I’m sorry I was a coward,” I say, loud and clear.

“I’m sorry I let what other people think matter more than what I know is right.

” I look straight at her now, and there’s a heat in my chest that feels like it could melt the rink.

“I’m sorry for every time I laughed when I should have shut it down.

And for every time I let you walk away instead of stopping you. ”

Someone in the crowd starts to clap. One person, then two. I let it go for a second, then cut back in.

“I’m not a performer. Not like you,” I say. “But I did learn a couple things. From you. So, if you’ll let me, I want to show you that I’m not afraid anymore.”

I toss the mic aside, pull off my gloves, and unlace the jersey in a single, practiced rip.

Underneath, I’m wearing a black sleeveless top from our first aerial session together.

It’s cut high at the arms and shows off the puck-shaped bruise on my shoulder from last week.

I glance at Trinity. Her eyes go wide. I don’t know if it’s horror or awe.

The crowd gives a little ooooh, which I take as my cue to move.

I walk to the base of the silk, grip it in both hands, and feel the fabric run rough between my fingers.

I never thought I’d be terrified of a piece of fabric, but the silk hanging in front of me is like a dare from the universe.

Up close, it’s even higher than I remember from the practice sessions.

The staff told me they’d lower it, but I can see now they just meant “a little.” I try to imagine Trinity up there, moving like gravity was a suggestion, not a rule.

It feels impossible. It feels like the only thing that matters.

The crowd is still roaring, but it’s background static compared to the blood rushing in my ears.

I wipe my palms on my shorts, grip the silk, and remember the first lesson: “Don’t overthink.

Just commit. It’s all about tension and trust.” Trinity said that, just before she threw herself into a perfect drop.

Here goes.

I jump, wrap the fabric around my forearms, and haul myself up.

Every muscle in my body screams that this is the wrong way to use them.

My core wants to split in half; my legs aren’t sure what to do except flail and look ridiculous.

I hear a couple of guys in the stands start to cackle, but that only makes me clamp on tighter.

I hook a knee, lock it in, and force myself to breathe. Pull, wrap, lock. Repeat. My shoulder twinges, but I ignore it. It’s not about the pain. It’s about not letting her down.

Halfway up, my arms are shaking. I risk a glance down, and there’s Trinity, still at the edge of the ice, mouth covered by both hands. Her eyes are locked on me, huge and shining. Nova is next to her, grinning like she’s about to win a bet.

I grit my teeth and keep going. Pull, wrap, don’t think, just do.

The last three feet are hell. My grip slips once, and I almost drop, but I manage to catch it and keep moving.

The silk burns my hands, but I don’t stop.

When I finally hit the mark—ten feet up, dead center in the spotlight—I plant both feet, let the fabric split around my hips, and hang upside down with my arms out. Just like Trinity did that first night.

The noise in the arena is insane now. Cameras flash. Someone blows an airhorn.

I scan for her, and there she is, face tilted up, tears streaking down her cheeks even though she’s smiling now, full and bright and real.

I let myself hang there a second longer, then flip up and hook my leg, sliding back down the silk in a half-spin. The impact rattles my teeth, but I manage not to eat shit in front of everyone. I grab the mic again, breathing heavy.

“This isn’t just about showing off,” I say, and I realize my voice is shaking, but not from fear.

“It’s about showing up. For you. For us.

” I reach into my pants pocket, pop open the ring box, and hold it up so it catches the spotlight.

The audience starts to get it now. Whistles, claps, and a few gasps ring out.

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” I say, and people laugh, relieved. “Not unless you want to. However, I am asking you to give me another shot. To be the guy who’s never too scared to climb for you. Even if it means falling on my ass. Even if I have to do it a hundred times.”

I walk to the glass and press my forehead to it. “Trinity,” I say, “will you come down here?”

Nova shoves her so hard she nearly falls out of her seat. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Trinity makes her way to the rink entrance, eyes locked on mine. She’s shaking her head, but she’s smiling now, a real one.

I walk over, meet her at the gate, and slide the ring box across the ice to her. She bends down, picks it up, and looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world, which is probably true.

She opens the box, then closes it. She doesn’t put the ring on.

She reaches out and grabs my hand. Her fingers are warm, steady, and I feel the world slow down for the first time all night.

The crowd explodes. Someone starts a chant. I think it’s Nova, but soon the whole lower bowl is yelling, “Trin! Trin! Trin!”

I pull her in for a hug. Her voice is right in my ear. “You absolute maniac,” she says, but she’s laughing, and that’s all I care about.

I drop the mic.

“I want to keep climbing. For you. With you. Even if I fall again. Even if I look like an idiot. I want to try for as long as you’ll let me.”

She’s shaking her head now, but it’s not a no. It’s the kind of shake that means “You’re so fucking dumb, but I can’t help loving you for it.” The kind of shake that makes my chest go wild.

“I love you,” I say, and the words just hang there. “I’ve never said that before. I didn’t even know what it meant until you.”

Trinity covers her mouth. The tears are running in streaks now, but she’s laughing, and she looks at me like I’m the only person in the world.

She leans forward, puts her hand on my chest.

I grin so hard my face feels like it might split open. We stand together under the spotlight, the silk swaying above us, and I don’t care about the noise or the cameras or anything except the way she feels in my arms.

“I love you too, Jasper,” she whispers, and it’s the only thing I ever need to hear.

I kiss her, right there in the middle of the rink, and the world around us goes insane.