“I’m moving to Alaska,” Jude announces.
“You still owe me from our last skating bet,” I remind him. “You’re contractually obligated to stay.”
“That’s not legally binding.”
“Try me.”
A week later, the whole town gathers at the rink for the video premiere. They’ve set up a projector on the ice. Brought in chairs and hot cocoa. It’s like the fundraiser all over again but with more anticipation.
The lights dim. The video starts.
It’s actually beautiful. The footage shows kids learning to skate, laughing, falling, getting back up. It shows Jude being patient and encouraging. Shows him smiling when my voice in the background says “good job” after someone nails a rhythm.
The crowd is eating it up. Parents are getting misty-eyed. The kids are pointing at themselves on screen and giggling.
The last shot is Jude, crouched down with a kid, tapping the triangle with a beater stick while the kid counts beats. They’re both concentrating hard. Then they nail it together and both grin.
The tagline appears: “Find your rhythm. Find your heart. The Briarwood Bobcats.”
The place erupts in applause.
Jude groans and drops his head into his hands.
“I’m never living this down,” he mutters.
“Nope,” I say cheerfully, sliding closer. “You’re officially wholesome.”
“This is your fault.”
“My fault? I didn’t make you good with kids.”
“You made me soft.”
“You were always soft. I just helped you show it.”
He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me close. “You’re the reason they caught me smiling.”
“You’re the reason I can’t stop.”
He kisses me right there in front of everyone. The crowd applauds again. The kids start banging their triangles in rhythm, which turns into chaos immediately but somehow feels perfect.
Finn yells from somewhere in the back, “Look at Hollywood over there!”
Jude pulls back just enough to smirk. “Coach Bruiser, actually.”
Later, after the crowd disperses and the kids are picked up by their parents, it’s quiet again. The lights on the ice glow soft and blue. We walk hand in hand, passing a few stragglers still practicing their stick work.
“You realize you’re the star of a commercial now,” I say.
“You realize I did it for you, right?”
“Sure. For me. Not for the six-year-old who called you Triangle Guy.”
“Kid’s got good instincts.”
We pass the music stand where someone left a triangle. Jude picks it up, grabs the beater, and dings it once.
I laugh. “Still on beat.”
