“This is awesome!” she yells, grabbing another football and shifting to line up with station number two. “How come no one else is doing this? Is this some sort of new city park initiative? I freaking love it!”
“Just throw the ball, stormy,” I groan. Of course Betsy’s going to have questions. I just need her to get through station number four and all her questions will be answered.
She throws and misses entirely. She throws another one and that one hits the edge of the hoop. It makes an ominous cracking noise, but holds. She throws a third time and it goes through finally. Balloons in black and gold release from behind the wooden wall set up beyond the hoop, gracefully flying up into the air. Betsy crows her pleasure, head tipped back watching them fly up into the sky.
“I hope those are biodegradable,” she mutters once the last one is just a dot in the sky.
“I’m sure they are,” I mutter back, knowing full well they are. In fact, they burst, drop back down to earth, and plant a seed wherever they land. “Okay, on to station three!”
Betsy hands me a football. “Here, you try, I feel bad doing all of them.”
I push it back to her. “No, no. I already tried them all out when I went for a hike earlier this week. That’s why I brought you back here.”
She studies me for a minute, but then takes the football in hand. “Okay.”
She winds up and throws, missing station three. She squints at the station. “Are those champagne bottles stacked up behind the hoop?”
I nod. “Yeah, I think it’s like that game at the fair. The milk bottle toss.”
Betsy laughs. “Just a more sophisticated bottle. That’s so Heaven.”
She ends up throwing five balls before one goes through and knocks over a champagne bottle. A small wall behind the hoop drops down and there’s a chilled champagne bottle and two glasses waiting.
Betsy frowns, not cheering her success this time. “Champagne? At the park? What if a kid played?”
I shove a football at her, trying to distract her from some very good questions. “Come on. One more station.”
She rubs her shoulder. “My arm’s getting tired. Sure you don’t want to do this one?”
I shake my head. “Nah. You got this.”
She shrugs and throws the ball, falling short by ten feet.
“You gotta give it more than that, storm cloud.”
“I’m trying, frat boy,” she says through clenched teeth.
I grin, shifting away and meandering over to the hoop. Balls keep flying but she keeps missing. I’m starting to worry that thirty balls won’t be enough. I hear her cursing and have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
“I only have two left!” she calls from over by the trough.
I cup my hands over my mouth and shout back. “You better make them count or you’ll be a big loser!”
Betsy puts both balls back in the trough to flip me off. Then she throws a football and I have to jump out of the way or it would have beaned me right in the head. Great, now she only has one ball left.
“Thehoop, Betsy!”
I see her roll her shoulders back, take a deep breath, and then fold her fingers around the ball. I reach down into my sock and take out the ring, keeping it clutched in my palm. She plants her feet, cocks her arm back, and lets the last football fly across the field. It sails right through the hoop, hits the lever, and a canvas rolls down to cover the entire back wall of the station. It took Mary London a whole day to paint the sign. She insisted it hadto have realistic flowers painted in the corners. She was right. It looks beautiful and elegant and everything my Betsy deserves. The cursive letters spell out my question.
Will you marry me?
I get down on one knee right there in the grass and Betsy gasps. I have to shout so she can hear me. I didn’t think this part through. I’ll simply have to make it work.
“Betsy Mae, I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life showing you how much better life is with you in it.”
“Wait!” Betsy shouts.
She takes off sprinting far faster than she’s ever gone on any of our runs. She doesn’t stop or appear to slow down as she gets closer. My eyes go wide as she jumps into my arms and we both go flailing into the grass. I try to take the brunt of the hit, landing with my back in the grass. The air’s knocked out of me, but I don’t think she notices. Betsy lifts her head off my chest, blue eyes brighter than the winter sky over her head.
