Page 126 of Rule 1: Never Accidentally Marry Your Teammate

“A sign that he was truly a hotshot,” I muse.

“Yep.” Luke and I nod thoughtfully into the middle distance.

“So they don’t have a Mr. Right yet?” Troy’s eyes gleam, and it’s suddenly easy to know whathe’s thinking.

Luke is oblivious. “I thought you weren’t interested in the show.”

“Just wondering how people get onto the show.”

I grin. “We can check the website, Troy. Maybe there’s an application form.”

Troy nods, and his eyes dance. “Yeah, that sounds fun.”

“You guys are strange,” Luke says. “I don’t know why you’re giggling.”

“Let’s go out,” I say. “See if we can figure out where they’ll go on the show.”

Troy winks at me as he fiddles with his phone.

“How tall are you, Luke?” Troy asks.

“Six foot three. Why?”

“Just wondering for hockey purposes.”

We laugh as we stroll toward Newbury Street. The path takes us through the Public Gardens, and swan boats glide regally over the lake. Students and workers on their break stroll the gardens, and even though it’s no longer spring or summer and the best flowers are no longer there, autumn-colored chrysanthemums squat in long rows.

Finally, we enter Newbury Street. An equal number of people stream the sidewalks, gawking at the window displays of designer stores. A few people wave at us, shouting “Go Blizzards!”

I love Boston.

But then my smile vanishes.

A man with curly golden-brown hair and a familiar gait laughs as he enters a store.

With a woman.

I can’t see her face, but my heart already spins.

He’s going shopping now? He doesn’t seem distraught. And why should he be? He’s free.

My fists tighten. It’s none of my business what Finn does. I should be happy that he’s happy. I am, in fact. Truly.

I swallow hard and turn to Luke. “You know, I’m almost positive they’ll film something in Boston Common. Want to go there?”

“Totally!” Luke says happily.

I paste my brightest smile on my face, even though my heart pangs. “Let’s go.”

Then I set a fast pace, because I don’t want Finn to see me.

FINN

Rain batters Coach Holberg’s large floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sky is a dismal gray. A few people scurry outside, heads directed downward, flashes of primary-colored parkas. Coach taps his fingers against his desk. I know from the rhythm that he is unhappy, and when I turn back to him, his frown continues to sink downward. He is Swedish melancholy and despair. Finally, he sighs. “This is a terrible idea.”

“I choose Noah every day. I want him to know.”

“You know, most proposals are done in private. I once saw a proposal in a restaurant go wrong, and I bet the proposer never went to that restaurantagain.”