but you've become my whole damn world.
I see clearly who you are,
and you see me despite my scars.
Together we're the perfect team.
A power play—a real-life dream.
The shots against us? There's a few—
But sinking shots is what I do.
Together we will build and grow,
but there's one thing I need to know.
Brooke, you've changed my life somehow.
So, can I be your boyfriend now?
"Wait, did you write this?" I ask, my eyes darting from the poem to him. My voice carries now that the music has faded, but I don't care who hears.
He cocks an eyebrow coyly. "Ehh, I may have had a little help."
My forehead creases until it clicks.
"Petrov," we both say together.
"God, there's so much more to all your friends," I mumble, shaking my head. I place my hand on his gripping the boards. "And to you."
Drew smiles, then opens the door and joins me on the bench. "So, what's it gonna be?" he asks, taking my hands in his. I reread his note quickly then peer up at him. "Your move, Larkin."
I stare at him, attempting to memorize his face more than I already have—his crystal blue eyes, the new fade of his hair, the indent in his cheek. He's beautiful. And for the second time today, I'm experiencing a moment that feels like the start of something new—better.
"You sure about this, Twelve?" I joke. "Rumor has it I'm a little older than you."
Drew laughs in an attempt to hide the growl that crawls from the back of his throat as he closes what's left of the small gap between us. "Haven't you heard that I no longer give one single fuck about rumors?"
I drape my arms around his neck and push to my tip-toes, our mouths nearly touching already. "Well, in that case," I whisper. I press my lips to his, and it's just as natural—and as life-altering—as it was that night last year at the gala. "Yeah, Twelve. I'm good with that if you are."
Drew lights up, and as if it was planned that way, the song starts over. The volume increases as a low rumble mixes with the introductory notes.
"Oh, please tell me there's an encore," I quip.
Drew laughs and rubs his forehead with his first two fingers. "If Brett had his way, there would be several."
With that, the nose of the Zamboni peeks out from the storage room. I look at Drew trying to decide if this was part of the plan or if we're being not so subtly kicked out of the rink, and he breathes in deeply.
The full machine comes chugging onto the ice, and I freeze, stunned, watching Carter Ward drive it, with Brett Burns straddling the top, a massive speaker lifted above his head.
"What the hell is happening?" I yell over the music.
"Jamboni!" Brett calls back as Carter continues driving past us, a sleek strip of glossy ice left behind them.
"Jamboni?" I question, turning back to Drew.
"You're lucky. He wanted to add strobe lights and a disco ball."
