I snort. “Good. Because nothing says romance like a woman dressed to negotiate a hostile takeover.”
I chose this dress because it doesn’t ask questions. Clean lines. Structured. Red, for Valentine's Day. Heels I can stand in for hours without wobbling. Hair smooth, makeup precise. I look like myself, just slightly sharpened.
Armor.
The arena opens up in front of us and the sound hits all at once. Thousands of voices layered together. Laughter. Music. The low thrum of bass vibrating through the temporary flooring laid over the ice. The air smells like popcorn and beer.
This is bigger than I pictured.
A staff member in a Hearts on Ice blazer approaches. “Finalists?” she asks brightly.
Paige straightens. “That’s her.” She points at me like she’s presenting a prize on a game show.
The woman smiles. “Right this way.”
We follow her down the aisle, past rows of seats filling quickly. Valentine’s graphics flash across the jumbotron. Couples pose for photos. Someone hands out foam hearts like they’re weapons.
The finalist section is roped off near the front. A row of seats marked with small numbered placards. Several women are already there.
One is laughing loudly, already filming herself. One sits ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes darting. One chats easily with the woman beside her, confident and relaxed.
I take my assigned seat.
Seat seven.
One of about fifteen in this section.
Paige and Nancy are guided to seats just behind the roped section. Close enough that I can see them. Close enough that Paige can make faces at me.
She does. Immediately.
I fight a smile.
I tell myself to stay contained. To sit still. To treat this like any other event where I observe, assess, take mental notes. I’ve done harder things than this in rooms full of strangers.
But my pulse betrays me anyway, ticking just a little faster. There’s a flutter low in my stomach that isn’t nerves exactly, and definitely isn’t fear. It’s the awareness that something might happen. That I could be called. That I might step out of this seat and into something unscripted.
I square my shoulders, inhale slowly, and remind myself I’m prepared for every possible outcome.
And then, quietly, inconveniently, I realize I’m hoping for one of them.
The lights dim slightly. Music swells. A roar ripples through the crowd as the spotlight swings to center stage, right where center ice would be.
And then Dex Miller steps into it.
The place explodes.
He looks like he was built for this moment, confident and loose, grin already in place like it’s muscle memory. He throws his arms wide, soaking in the noise.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he booms, pacing the stage. “Happy Valentine’s week! Or, as I like to call it, February but make it emotionally confusing.”
Laughter rolls through the arena.
Dex points to the stands. “Who’s here on a date?”
Cheers.
“Who’s here because your friend said there would be cute hockey players?”
