“Ready for this?” He adjusts his microphone.
“Please. I could do this in my sleep.”
He unzips his pockets and stuffs his hands inside. “I’ve heard you talk in your sleep, Holt. It’s mostly about weather patterns and whether someone ate the last bagel.”
“I do not—” I protest, then catch the teasing glint in his eye. “You’re the worst.”
“That’s not what you said last night,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that should be prohibited in public.
Before I can respond, Kermit signals that we’re on in thirty seconds. I straighten my blouse, run a hand through my hair, and slip into professional mode. The red light blinks on, and suddenly we’re live to the entire arena via the Jumbotron.
“Good evening, Beaver County! I’m Sydney Holt from KBVR, here with Brooks Kingston to break down this nail-biter of a game.” I turn to Brooks, my smile camera-perfect. “Brooks, what are your thoughts on the Beavers’ performance so far?”
He launches into analysis, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of both teams with insight. I nod along, adding commentary about the standout players and key moments. We’re a good team, our back-and-forth comfortable and engaging.
During the second intermission, as Brooks moves his hand out of his pocket to emphasize a point about the Wildcats’ defensive strategy, something falls, landing with a small clink on the concrete floor. We both glance down, and my heart stops.
It’s a ring.
Not just any ring—an antique-looking band with a modest but beautiful diamond, surrounded by smaller stones that catch the light. It rolls in a small circle before coming to rest at my feet.
Time seems to slow down. I look at it, then at Brooks, whose expression is a mix of surprise and what might be panic. Then I notice Kermit, our ever-opportunistic cameraman, has already panned down to capture the fallen ring.
Brooks clears his throat. “Whoops. I was going to finish the broadcast before doing this, but I guess it’s happening now.”
In a split-second decision that I’ll probably spend the rest of my life replaying, Brooks drops to one knee. Right there. On live television. In front of the entire arena.
“Sydney,” he begins, his voice steady despite the wild look in his eyes. “This isn’t how I planned to do this, but maybe it’s perfect in its own way.”
The arena falls silent, hundreds of people collectively holding their breath. My heart pounds so hard I’m surprised the microphone doesn’t pick it up.
“This ring belonged to my grandmother, and her mother before her. Three generations of Kingston women have worn it.” He picks up the ring, holding it between us. “I can’t imagine anyone more worthy of being the fourth than you.”
Is this real? Part of me—a dangerously hopeful part—wonders if there’s truth behind this grand gesture. If somehow, in the chaos of our fake relationship, genuine feelings have grown on both sides.
“Sydney Holt,” Brooks continues, his eyes never leaving mine, “will you marry me?”
The silence stretches for what feels like hours but is probably only seconds. My brain scrambles to make sense of what’s happening. This wasn’t part of our agreement. This is beyond fake dating, beyond the boundaries we set. This is—
“Yes,” I hear myself say, the word escaping before I can analyze it to death. “Yes, I will.”
The stadium erupts. Hundreds of people leap to their feet, cheering and whistling as Brooks slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly, which seems impossible and somehow right at the same time. He stands, pulling me into an embrace that feels both like a performance and the mostgenuine thing we’ve shared.
“I’m going to kill you,” I whisper into his ear, even as I smile for the cameras.
“I’ll explain everything,” he promises, then kisses me for good measure, sending the crowd into even louder hysterics.
We’re immediately swarmed by well-wishers. My parents push through the crowd, Mom already in tears, Dad looking shell-shocked but pleased. Mayor Martinez is there, pumping Brooks’ hand and declaring himself the winner of the town betting pool. My old high school coach appears, slapping Brooks on the back hard enough to make him wince.
It’s overwhelming, suffocating, and it takes every ounce of my television training to maintain a smile through it all. Finally, mercifully, the announcer calls for attention—the third period is about to begin, and we need to clear the floor.
Brooks pulls me into a quiet corner behind the broadcast booth, his expression a mix of apology and something I can’t quite read.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “Meema gave me the ring. She wants me to have it, to give to...” he trails off, gesturing vaguely. “It was in my coat pocket. I forgot it was there. And then when it fell out, and Kermit panned to it, I just... reacted.”
“You reacted by proposing? On live television?” My voice rises despite my best efforts to keep it down.
“What was I supposed to do? Say ‘oops, that’s my grandmother’s engagement ring that I carry around for no reason’?”
