I swallow. “Decisions?”
President Cole’s smile deepens. “Laura, with our new TV partnership, the Crushers have been working to refine the game-day experience. Stronger branding. More personality. Something memorable.”
Coach nods. “Something that keeps fans engaged from the second they sit down.”
President Cole gestures toward the rink behind us. “We’ve never had an official anthem performer before. Not once in the history of the program.”
“Until now.”
Scotty squeezes my hip and it takes me a second to process what they’re implying. “Wait, do you meanme?”
“Yes, you,” President Cole says, voice warm but certain. “We would like to offer you the role of official anthem performer for the Covey Crushers for the remainder of the season. You’d open every home game. Your performance tonight was… well, you saw the crowd’s reaction. You gave us something unforgettable.”
My pulse kicks up, sharp and loud.
“I—wow. I don’t even know what to say.”
Coach laughs under his breath. “Say yes, kid. The whole arena damn near levitated when you sang.”
President Cole nods once. “We think you’d be an excellent addition. And, frankly, the camera crews would be thrilled. The broadcast team already asked who you were.”
My breath catches. It’s suddenly hard to think past the rush of emotion swelling in my chest.
Me.
They want me.
I meet President Cole’s eyes.
Then Coach’s.
Finally, I look up at Scotty. He’s smiling at me like he already knows my answer.
“O-okay,” I whisper, feeling the words settle into something real inside me. “Yes. I’d love to.”
President Cole’s smile widens. “Wonderful. I’ll have our athletics coordinator reach out this week. And Laura…” Her tone softens. “You should be incredibly proud. Tonight was exceptional.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Really.”
She gives Coach a nod and steps back to speak with one of the arena staff.
The moment she’s out of immediate earshot, Professor Foster finally lifts her brows like she’s been holding a secret this whole time.
“Well,” she says, “I’d say my freshman-year pairing experiment worked out beautifully.”
Coach McKibbon slings an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “She still brags about it at faculty dinners,” he says. “You’d think she solved world hunger, not assigned a group project.”
Professor Foster lifts her chin. “I was fostering collaboration.”
“You were playing matchmaker,” Coach corrects. “And for the record, you’ve ruined every other player’s expectations. I’ve got at least one kid on my roster wondering why his poetry partner hasn’t shown up to whisk him away.”
I choke on a laugh, and Scotty says, “Coach!”
“I’m just saying,” he continues with a shrug, “some of these boys could use whatever magic touch you two have. One of my wingers tried to flirt with the Zamboni driver last week. It was grim.”
Professor Foster covers her mouth, laughing. “Which one?”
“Erik,” Scotty answers simply. “I saw it.”
