Cash knows to steer clear of me for at least an hour afterward, unless he’s ready for some attitude and maybe a little venting.
Even though we won’t get much time, and we’ll have to be careful with the cameras, I want one moment alone with Miles. One kiss. Enough to get me through the next few days, weeks, months—nope, I refuse to think we’ll be apart beyond that.
There’s a knock on the door, and then a man pokes his head in. “Ready to go through everything?”
At Cash’s “Yep,” he joins us. He tells Cash how thrilled he was to get the call, that he’s a huge fan, and how great it is that this worked out. Then he runs through the process, hands us the printed lyrics—for both anthems—and tells us that the music director will be in shortly for any arrangement questions.
When we’re alone again, Cash and I work through both songs, figuring out harmonies and who’s singing what. We spend more time onO CanadathanThe Star-Spangled Banner, but by the time we’re called two hours later, both sound close to perfect.
An assistant leads us through a maze of concrete hallways, the sounds of the arena getting louder with each turn.
My heart pounds so hard, my temples pulse.
I wipe my palms on my skirt before taking the mic. I tug at the jersey—Miles’s jersey—tucked in at my waist. Number 43. The fabric smells faintly of home and stale beer from the lasttime I wore it at Sully’s. Not like him at all, but comforting, nonetheless.
Even Cash is wearing one, but he opted for an Edmonton jersey.The traitor.Though it probably makes us look neutral.
“We’ve got this.” Cash bumps his shoulder against mine.
I can only nod, my throat tight. I clear it, hoping the words will come out when I need them.
The assistant gestures toward the tunnel. “You’re up.”
The cold hits me first, then the noise. How does Miles play under this kind of pressure? At least when I’m on stage, the crowd is happy to see me. Here, the boos roll in the second the Saints are announced.
Cash and I step onto the carpet runner laid across the ice.
The players are already lined up. Edmonton is closest to us, a wall of orange and blue. Across the red line, the Saints stand shoulder to shoulder, in navy and yellow.
I scan the line, and there he is.
He’s got his head down, shuffling from side to side, stick in one hand, helmet in the other.
I swallow.
The announcer’s voice booms across the arena: “Here to performO CanadaandThe Star-Spangled Banner, please welcome Cash Walker and Summer Starling.”
Miles’s head jerks up, his gaze snapping to mine, eyes wide. Then something else crosses his features. It looks a lot likeyou’re here,mixed with disbelief.
His hair is damp at his temples. He somehow looks exhausted and wound tight at the same time, but so achingly familiar my throat goes tight.
Even with thousands of people watching, cameras broadcasting, and Cash standing beside me, all I can focus on is him.
I smile. I can’t help it.
And he returns it, looking at me like I just gave him the Cup itself.
Cash startsO Canadawith a low opening note, and I grip my microphone tighter, my hands shaking.
It’s all I can do not to drop it and run across the ice to Miles.
For the first time in nearly a month, we’re in the same building, and I can’t touch him. Can’t jump into his arms. Can’t do anything but stand here and sing.
Cash holds the note on “thee,” and I take one more calming breath before coming in with my verse. “God, keep our land, glorious and free…”
Miles’s dark eyes stay locked on mine. His chest rises and falls, but he’s otherwise unnaturally still, compared to his teammates, who shuffle and shift.
I think he mouths something, but I can’t be sure.
