When we emerge, we’re right in front of the ice.
And to my right stands a woman in a glittering gown, tall and stunning, skin glowing under the lights.
When I realize who she is, the breath leaves my body.
“Oh my god,” I blurt, hand flying to my chest. “You’re… you’re Trinity Preston.”
She grins, a wide, perfect smile, and holds out a hand for me to shake. “And you are?”
“Uh, nobody?” I say, grinning like an idiot. Trinity Preston won America’s Next Singer two cycles ago. She just put out an album, and I’ve had it on repeat for weeks. I might swoon.
“I doubt that very much,” she says.
“I’m, oh, I mean, my name is Emma. But I’m not…I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
The teams take the ice in a flurry of light and sound, another promotional video playing. Liam is one of the last of the Brawlers to take the ice. He’s a starter, and he’s new, so he gets a lot of applause.
When the cheers finally settle, the announcer’s voice booms:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Trinity Preston for the National Anthem.”
Trinity steps out through the same opening the staff member led me through, gliding over the red carpet that stretches acrossthe ice. She looks like a literal goddess under the arena lights, sequins catching every color.
Both teams line up on either side of her.
And Liam is standing right next to her.
He leans in, says something I can’t hear, and Trinity beams at him just as the music cues.
Then she sings.
Her rich, soaring, powerful voice fills the entire arena, enough to vibrate straight through my chest. I swallow hard, suddenly feeling emotional and overwhelmed. I’m so swept up in that, for a moment, I honestly think this must be the whole surprise.
A surprise meet-and-greet. Something sweet and thoughtful that Liam arranged because he knows how much I adore Trinity’s music.
But then the last note fades—the applause crescendos around us.
And Trinity doesn’t step off the ice.
Instead, she lifts the mic again, her dazzling smile flashing across the jumbotron.
“My fellow Bostonians,” she says, laughter in her voice, “can I borrow two more minutes of your time before we drop the puck? Turns out our newest Brawler, Liam Callaghan, has somethingsignificant he wants to share… and he asked for as many witnesses as possible. You all good with that?”
The arena answers with a thunderous roar.
My stomach flips.
And then I’m being gently ushered forward, toward the ice, toward him.
I step out onto the carpet, shaky, stunned, acutely aware of twenty thousand set of eyes.
Liam is waiting for me. Full gear. Helmet off. Sweat-damp curls. Cheeks pink from the cold.
He gives me this small, nervous smile.
And then?—
He drops to one knee.
