27. Jinx
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jinx
I swipe a neon pink streak across the loopy curve of the G in “WILL YOU GO ON A DATE WITH ME?” and sit back on my heels, eyeing the sign with a level of concentration typically reserved for bomb defusing or eyeliner on the first try.
The letters are kind of crooked, the paint’s a little too thick in spots, and there’s a glitter smudge where I sneezed halfway through the word “ DATE ,” but honestly? It’s perfect.
Chaotic. Emotional. Deeply unhinged in a way that feels extremely on brand.
If I’m going to make a romantic spectacle of myself in front of a literal stadium, I might as well do it with glitter and questionable typography.
I blow on the paint gently, like that’ll help it dry faster. The banner takes up half my living room floor, and my gecko has already pranced across it twice, leaving sparkly footprints like tiny disco stamps.
The kitchen floor is now a crime scene of glittery chaos. He looks proud. I respect the energy.
Grabbing my phone, I fire off a text to Ally and Kenzie before I can lose my nerve.
hey!!! can you ask the announcer (also pls remind me this was my idea when i inevitably panic and try to hide under a hot dog stand.)
I hit send and immediately groan, flopping onto the hardwood next to the banner like I’ve just fainted from romantic delirium.
“Jessica Anderson,” I whisper to myself, draping the back of my hand dramatically across my forehead. “You glitter-crazed, romance-novel-heroine-acting lunatic. What are you doing?”
But I know exactly what I’m doing.
I’m done sulking around like a ghost in my own apartment. Done crocheting emotionally turbulent scarves and pretending I don’t refresh their Instagram stories like a woman possessed.
I miss them.
I miss Thomas and his barely contained golden retriever energy, bouncing off the walls like he’s powered by Red Bull and dreams. I miss Bruno pretending not to care while practically seething with affection from every inch of his grumpy exterior. And Rowan…
God. Rowan. I miss him in that deep, slow, chest-aching way, like I set down part of myself somewhere and forgot how to function without it.
I miss the sound of them arguing about who left the protein shaker in the microwave. I miss the smell of bad cologne and liniment cream. I miss the late-night Mario Kart tournaments, the dumb inside jokes, the loud, ridiculous, beautiful chaos of all of it.
I miss us.
So, yeah. I’m painting a glitter bomb of a banner and asking three men out on a date in front of thousands of people.
Because life is short. Because I’m in love.
And hopefully they are, too.
Hopefully, they miss me as much as I miss them.
I miss Rowan’s grumpy morning scowl or Thomas burning eggs in the kitchen. Bruno’s jokes at the worst time.
It wasn’t just fun. It was real.
I didn’t think I’d want real. I really didn’t think I’d want it all at once, from three chaotic hockey boys who barely know what day it is, let alone how to be in a relationship. But here we are.
Maybe this sign is over the top. Maybe the whole thing is wildly impractical and borderline embarrassing. But that’s kind of the point.
I want them to know I’m in. If they still want me.
I want them to see me in the stands, ridiculous and grinning and way too loud, holding up a dumb sign and asking for one more shot.
I want to see their faces when the music starts.
And yeah, okay, maybe I also want to be on the jumbotron kissing them in front of a screaming crowd, because go big or go home, right?
I glance at my phone. Still no response from the girls. Probably wrangling the logistics, or maybe just laughing themselves stupid over my text. Either way, I trust them to pull through.
I take a deep breath, then lean over the banner again and add three glittery red hearts at the bottom, one for each of them.
I sit back on my heels, glitter smeared across one cheek, and whisper to the room like I’m starring in the final act of a romcom:
“Showtime.”
My phone buzzes a few minutes later.
Kenzie sends a GIF of someone saluting with military level seriousness. Ally follows it up immediately:
DJ’s in. Announcer’s hyped. You’re officially insane. We love you anyway.
I let out a squeal that would make dolphins wince and grin at my phone like it’s a love letter from the universe.
Then I fling it onto the couch before turning back to my glorious monstrosity of a banner, now propped up on yoga blocks like it’s being honored for its service. A few flakes of glitter drift to the floor like celebratory confetti.
Worth it. So worth it.
Now? It’s go time.
I dive into my closet like I’m assembling a superhero costume. First, the Marauders tee, oversized, deliciously soft, and probably half composed of nostalgia and broken in dreams.
Then, the matching beanie I crocheted last fall, the one with the team colors spiraled into the brim. Bruno once said it looked like “someone bedazzled a tactical helmet,” and honestly, that only made me wear it more.
Next comes the pièce de résistance: my vintage Marauders hoodie. Faded, slightly ridiculous, and pure magic. I found it at a charity auction and nearly cried bidding on it. The logo is old school, and I love it with my whole heart.
I toss the hoodie onto the growing outfit pile and go fishing for the final touch, my lucky sneakers. The same ones I wore during a Vancouver game last year, the one where Thomas declared I was their “emotional support chaos gremlin” and made me pinky promise never to wash them.
I did. Obviously. I’m not feral.
Outfit complete, I stand back and assess myself in the mirror like I’m about to walk the carpet at the Oscars of sports fandom.
“You look like the world’s most emotionally unhinged fan girl,” I tell my reflection, lips quirking. “Perfect.”
Because tonight isn’t just about them. It’s about me , too. About finally saying what I want. No backup plan. No half measures. Just full-blown, banner-waving, lunacy. And I’m all in.
The game’s going to be epic, not just because the Marauders are favored to win, and they totally are, thank you very much, but because I’m about to unleash the most chaotic, glitter-filled, aggressively heartfelt romantic gesture this stadium has ever seen.
Take that, kiss cam. This is art.
I double-check the front pocket of my bag, fingers brushing the stiff edge of my ticket. Front row. By the ice. The kind of seat people summon demons for. It cost me a small fortune and possibly my soul.
Worth. It.
I blow out a shaky breath and lean against the door frame as the truth of it sinks in.
I’m really doing this. I’m really going to stand in the front row of a sold-out arena, hold up a glitter drenched banner, and ask three hockey players—three of the most ridiculous, infuriating, lovable idiots I’ve ever known—if they still want me.
If they do?
Oh, baby.
That scoreboard won’t be the only thing lighting up tonight.