Just Playing for Keeps (Hockey Ever After #2)

1. I’ve Got Everything Under Control

I’VE GOT EVERYTHING UNDER CONTROL

REMY

Twenty-four hours’ notice and I have everything ready. I can’t leave a night like this to chance. Not after spotting a certain little jewelry box hidden among the sweatshirts in my boyfriend’s closet.

Inside the arena, a peaceful warmth floods me, the bliss of thorough preparation for whatever the night brings.

Jameson gestures to the aisle in the arena, letting me go first. I move in front of him, walking down the steps toward our seats as anthemic rock music pipes through the hockey rink, pump-me-up tunes perfect for the players as they warm up on the ice.

Just look at Jameson. He’s all dressed up, wearing his signature vest, of course, and a forest green checked shirt I picked out for him when he asked me to take him clothes shopping a few weeks ago.

He’s rocking an undercut, and his jaw is clean-shaven.

When we reach the second row, he pats the cushy black faux leather aisle seat. “Isn’t this great, Remy?”

His voice pitches with nerves. My chest tingles from that sign too.

“These seats are amazing,” I reassure him, since he sometimes needs that.

When my boyfriend of eleven and three-quarter months surprised me last week with center-ice tickets to the one thousandth game the Golden State Foxes have played at this arena—seats I can’t even get as the team’s part-time community relations manager—I figured it was an early anniversary gift.

But then last night, I grabbed a hoodie to borrow, and a little gray jewelry box marked “Made by Fable” fell out of the front pocket.

I popped it back in its hiding place, borrowed a different sweatshirt, and shifted into planning mode, stat.

A day later, here we are, at a place meaningful to both of us.

And Jameson and I did meet by his craft beer brewery on the concourse, so it makes perfect sense he’d pick the arena for the occasion.

Once he settles into the seat, he waves a slightly shaky hand toward the boards. “I know how much you love these games.”

I press my lips together so I don’t burst into confetti. “I do.”

Not the only time I’ll be saying that in the near future.

I smooth a hand over my jeans as Lake Axelrod, the team’s top right winger, glides past the glass, his gaze touring the stands like he’s checking out who’s here. I shed my jacket quickly, revealing my off-the-shoulder soft cream sweater.

Jameson’s gaze strays briefly to my exposed shoulder, then he looks away, toward the ice. Eye contact must be tough when he’s trying to keep a secret.

The game begins, and I focus on the action during the first period while mentally ticking off the arrangements I’d managed in one mere day.

Like that slim videographer in the plaid beret weaving his way through the fans during the game breaks, asking them to share favorite memories of games in this arena, which are broadcast on the Jumbotron for all twenty thousand attendees to see.

I told Odin I’d help plan a special date for him and his wife if he’d stick near me during the upcoming fox toss when I think Jameson is most likely to ask the question.

And there’s the curly-haired usher, Selena.

I set up a hotspot on her phone once upon a time, and she told me she owes me (she doesn’t), so she was happy to help.

She’ll have a bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilled to the perfect temperature and ready for her to bring over at my signal—a double tuck of my hair.

Then a row away is Savannah, the backup photographer I hired in case Jameson didn’t think of it. What if he doesn’t know I’ve always wanted a fun, frothy proposal, or that I’d want pics of every moment?

I stop myself from scanning the seats for photographers Jameson might have hired. It’s best I focus on what I can control.

And I’ve prepared for everything.

I settle in for the rest of the game, trying to contain my excitement as the clock winds down to the second intermission.

Finally, the loudspeaker warbles in the arena.

“And now…” the announcer booms from the rink, “your Golden State Foxes are coming back to the ice a little early. Get ready to toss your stuffed foxes onto the ice as your home team collects them to donate to the local children’s hospital. ”

The hockey stars fly through the tunnel in their purple and white jerseys, sticks in hand. The fans go wild, popping up in their seats to chuck their tawny stuffies over the glass and onto the rink.

The guys skate around, scooping them up with their gloves or sticks. I glance at the clock. The fox toss spans the final two minutes of the intermission—I planned the event. There are ninety seconds left. Plenty of time for Jameson to ask me to be his.

He rubs his palms along the denim on his thighs.

C’mon. You can do it, sweetie.

He reaches into his pocket.

My throat catches.

There’s that tiny jewelry box-shaped bulge, right there.

Yes!

It’s happening. And all I have to do is give the sign to kick off my embellishments. I tuck my chestnut strands over both ears as the music grows louder, the crowd turns wilder, and foxes fly over my head and onto the ice.

I glimpse Selena’s curls as she carries a bucket of the best bubbly, then Odin in his beret, slinking down the row with his camera and mic, and Savannah, ready for the backup stills.

“So, Remy,” Jameson begins, as he drags that box from his pocket. He curls his palm around it, and I can barely stand how fast my pulse is beating.

“Yes?” I ask, all my attention fixed on him. My cells are buzzing.

He reaches for my hand with his free one. “I wanted to let you know that I think you’re really great,” he says.

“So are you.”

“And since you love this place so much, I want to ask you a question while we’re here.”

His words echo throughout the arena. Odin must have alerted the control room to switch to his camera feed and mic. We’re live on the Jumbotron, like I’d planned.

“Ask me anything,” I say to Jameson, but for the entire arena to see. I bet he’ll be thrilled I engineered this. It’ll be so good for his brewery, and he loves his little business like it’s his pet.

Glancing at the screen where we’re twenty feet tall, he swallows roughly, then speaks again. “Will you still be friends with me?”

Wait. What? I choke back my half-formed answer to the question he hadn’t asked. “Friends?”

“Yes. Will you consciously uncouple with me?”

He opens the Made by Fable box. But inside is not a diamond ring, like the designer makes. There’s only a friendship bracelet, cheap and plastic, and it says Friends Forever on it.

My throat tightens. On the massive screen above the ice, twenty-thousand Foxes fans watch me struggle to breathe.

This is not a proposal. This is a Jumbotron dump.