26. Ethan
Ethan
“So did you send the flowers?” Nova is lacing up his skates in the stall next to mine, his voice low enough that only I can hear him.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” I yank my own laces tighter than necessary. “She probably thought they were from someone else. I shouldn't have listened to you, assholes.”
Nova waves off my concern. “Don't worry about it. Today is the clincher. She can't not give you another chance after this.”
“Yeah, or I might end up looking stupid in front of fifteen thousand people.”
“That's the spirit, Wall. Positive thinking.”
I glare at him, but he just grins back, completely unbothered by my hostility. That's the thing about Nova. Nothing fazes him. He's been annoyingly optimistic about this whole plan since I made the mistake of asking for advice.
It happened three nights ago. We were having dinner at some steakhouse with Cole, Theo, Nova, and Jake. I'd been stewing in my own misery for weeks, barely eating, barely sleeping, replaying every moment with Natalie until I made myself sick with regret.
Theo had finally had enough.
“You need to fix this,” he said, pointing his fork at me. “You're miserable. She's miserable. The whole damn facility is walking on eggshells because you two can't be in the same room without the temperature dropping twenty degrees.”
“I don't know how to fix it.”
“Do something huge that will make her forget what an asshole you were,” Nova said immediately. “Women love that. Go big or go home.”
“What kind of something?”
And that's when the ideas started flying. Flowers first, they decided. Test the waters, see if she's receptive. Then, if she doesn't completely reject the offering, go bigger.
The Jumbotron was Nova’s idea, then Cole jumped in. Who would have thought the Robot had a romantic bone in his body, but to be fair, since Harper, he’s mellowed.
Cole knows the marketing team from all his captain duties and community events. He made some calls, pulled some strings, and suddenly my romantic desperation became an official arena production.
Coach Mercer was less enthusiastic.
“Soap opera bullshit,” he muttered when Cole told him the plan. “We're here to play hockey, not stage a goddamn Bachelor episode.”
But he didn't say no. Probably because he's tired of my sulking affecting my performance. Or maybe, underneath all that gruff exterior, he's a secret romantic. I doubt it, but stranger things have happened.
“The marketing team is set,” Cole says from across the locker room. “They thought it was romantic. They're excited to be part of it.”
“Camera operators are tipped off,” Theo adds. “They know to find Natalie when the message goes up.”
“Great.” I pull my jersey over my head. “So everyone in the organization knows I'm about to make a fool of myself.”
“Everyone in the arena will know,” Jake corrects cheerfully. “There's like fifteen thousand people out there. Plus, whatever gets posted online afterward.”
“You're not helping,” glaring at him.
“I'm keeping you humble. There's a difference.”
The locker room buzzes with pre-game energy as the other guys finish getting ready. This is my first game back since the injury. My first real test of whether my knee can handle actual competition.
Instead, all I can think about is what happens after I score.
If I score.
What if I don't score? What if I play like shit and never get the chance to point at the Jumbotron? What if Natalie isn't even paying attention when the message goes up? What if she sees it and walks away?
“Stop overthinking it.” Theo drops onto the bench beside me. “You're going to do great. The knee is solid. You've been skating circles around everyone in practice. Just play your game.”
“And if I don't score?”
“Then we go to Plan B. Nova tackles you on the ice, and you propose right there.”
“I'm not proposing.”
“Not with that attitude, you're not.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Relax. This is going to work. Olivia says Natalie has been miserable without you. She's just waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass.”
“Eloquent.”
“I learned from the best.”
Coach Mercer appears in the doorway, and the locker room falls silent.
“Alright, listen up. This is an exhibition, but I don't want to see anyone treating it like a vacation.
Play smart and hard. Don't do anything stupid that gets you injured before the real season starts.” His eyes find mine.
“Ward, you're on a minutes restriction. I pull you when I pull you, no arguments.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Good. Now get out there and remind everyone why we're the defending champions.”
The tunnel to the ice is dark and cold. I've walked this path hundreds of times, but tonight it feels different.
Tonight, everything is on the line. The roar of the crowd hits me as we step onto the ice for warmups.
Fifteen thousand fans in their seats, waving signs and cheering and creating a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest.
The Jumbotron displays player stats and welcome messages, the usual pre-game production that I normally tune out.
Tonight, every flash of that giant screen makes my palms sweat.
I scan the bench area during warmups and find her almost immediately. Natalie is standing with the trainers. She's deliberately not looking at me, her attention fixed on something fascinating on her clipboard.
I swallow excess saliva in my mouth.
Soon she'll have to look at me.
The game starts, and I force myself to focus. First shift, I'm on the ice for about ninety seconds. Testing my knee and finding my legs. The pace is faster than practice, and my body takes a moment to adjust.
A pass from Cole. I redirect it to Nova. He takes a shot that the goalie saves. The whistle blows. Shift change.
I skate to the bench, and my eyes find Natalie again. She's tracking the play on the ice.
The first period passes in a blur. I play four shifts, each one feeling stronger than the last. My knee holds, and my timing is coming back. By the second period, I'm starting to feel like myself again.
The Jumbotron flashes with a Kiss Cam segment, and my stomach drops. I search for Natalie in the crowd of medical staff, terrified that the camera will find her before I'm ready. But it lands on a young couple in section 114 who kiss enthusiastically while their friends cheer.
Another shift. It’s a solid defensive play. New Jersey Blades are fast, but we're faster; our chemistry from last season's championship run is still intact. The score is tied 2-2 heading into the third period, and Coach is pushing us to find another gear.
“Ward, you're up,” he barks. “Don't fuck it up.”
I hop over the boards and join the rush. Cole has the puck in the neutral zone, and he's looking for options. I crash the net, positioning myself in front of the goalie, using my body to create chaos.
The puck comes to Nova on the half-wall. He fakes a shot and passes to Theo at the point. Theo one-times it toward the net, and I get my stick on it, redirecting the puck past the goalie's blocker.
The red light goes on.
The arena erupts.
My teammates swarm me, slapping my helmet and shouting congratulations. First goal since the injury. I pull away and skate towards the medical area. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe. This is it. This is the moment. No turning back now.
I stop at the glass in front of Natalie and point to the Jumbotron.
For a horrible second, nothing happens. The screen shows a replay of my goal, and I think something has gone wrong. The production team forgot, or the message isn't coming, I'm standing here like an idiot, pointing at nothing.
Then the replay ends, and new words appear on the screen.
NATALIE CROSS
I LOVE YOU. I MISS YOU.
PLEASE GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE.
- ETHAN
The arena goes silent as thousands of people read my heart on a sixty-foot screen. Then someone shouts, “Say yes!” and others take up the chant until the whole arena is vibrating with it.
I search for Natalie through the glass.
She's frozen in place, her hand pressed against her mouth and tears streaming down her face. The camera finds her, and her shocked expression fills the Jumbotron, visible to everyone in the building.
The chanting grows louder. SAY YES. SAY YES. SAY YES.
I press my gloved hand against the glass and wait.
This is the worst part. The not knowing. The vulnerability of standing here, heart exposed, while she decides whether to forgive me or walk away. I've never been this scared in my life. Not during any game, any playoff series, any championship. This is terrifying.
Natalie lowers her hand from her mouth. She takes one step forward. Then another. The crowd noise swells with every inch she moves toward me.
She reaches the glass and stops.
We're separated by a barrier I can't cross. I'm on the ice in my gear, and she's on the bench in her polo. But she's here. She came to me instead of walking away.
She raises her hand and presses it against the glass, aligning her palm with mine.
The arena explodes.
I can't hear anything over the roar of the crowd. I can't think about anything except the woman on the other side of this glass, her tear-streaked face more beautiful than anything I've ever seen.
“I'm sorry,” I mouth. “I was wrong.”
She nods, tears still falling, and mouths something back.
“I know.” And then she smiles.
It's the smile I've been dreaming about for weeks.
The referee blows his whistle somewhere behind me. The game is still happening, but right now, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is Natalie.
She willing to give me another chance.