The Husband Game

A minute of frantic scrambling later—the other team trying to score again, and our team stopping them all the while—the buzzer sounds. Game over.

“We won!” Anna screams in my face, and I laugh and hug her, then the other girls.

My heart swells in my chest. Wow. I never knew hockey games could be this fun. I never knew I could get so invested in the outcome of a game. We’re still cheering and celebrating, when Anna nudges my shoulder.

“You might want to go down there,” she says, thumbing over her shoulder.

When I turn around, I notice that the teams have finished their ceremonial “good game” handshakes. But Charlie is still standing in the middle of the ice, waving at me. Gesturing for me to come there.

Come there how?

I climb down to the players’ box and stop there. At least, until Charlie skates over, and opens the little door that leads onto the ice itself.

“Come here,” he calls.

My forehead scrunches with confusion, but I listen to him. I hop over the boards, and step gingerly onto the ice with one sneaker. “I don’t have skates,” I protest.

“I’ll help you.” Then he’s there, right in front of me, taking my hand and drawing me with him onto the ice.

He skates backward, pulling me with him, so I don’t have to try and walk in shoes on this slippery as hell post-game surface. His hands feel warm and strong, wrapped around mine. I expect him to take me in a little circle, maybe hug me, and then let me go back to the safe, dry stands.

Instead, he starts to tug me toward the center of the ice.

“What are you doing?” I shout, laughing. Behind him, I spot a few of his teammates watching, grinning. Still more are lined up along the boards, trading high-fives and celebratory shots that their friends watching the stands brought with them. The room is still crowded, nobody eager to disperse after this win. Everyone wants to hang out and celebrate.

Which means there are still a ton of witnesses when we reach the center of the ice, and Charlie drops to one knee.

“Charlie,” I hiss, reaching down to grab his hands. But he takes mine instead, pressing them together, holding them between his hands.

“You said you wanted traditional,” he says, his voice low, so nobody can hear but me.

By now, a couple of his teammates have noticed what he’s doing, as have more than a few of the girls in the stands. I hear whoops and cheers starting up, along with gasps.

“Lila Baker,” he starts, his eyes fixed on mine. And looking down at him, still sweaty and flushed with victory, dressed in his full hockey suit, gracefully kneeling on this slippery as hell rink like it’s nothing, like balancing here on literal ice is the easiest thing in the world… Fuck. He’s hot.

His smile widens, like he knows what I’m thinking. “The days I’ve spent with you have been some of the most fun, exciting days in my life. Not to mention sexy.” He smirks, and my face heats bright red. Or, redder than it already was, at least.

“Charlie… You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts me, his voice low and heated. He tightens his grip on my hand. “Lila. I’ve loved being with you. Getting to know you, learning how your mind works. I want to keep doing that, every day, for the rest of our time together. So.” He reaches into a pocket, and I can’t help it. I actually gasp.

He didn’t.

But he did. He withdraws a flawless diamond ring on a white gold band, in what looks like a vintage setting.

“Where…?” I breathe, confused. Stunned. He actually got me a ring?

“It’s my grandmother’s,” he explains in a low voice. “She gave it to me years ago. She told me that when I found the right woman to wear it, I’d know. Well. I think I found her.” His eyes fix on mine, searing hot.

Gazing into those eyes, I can’t help it. My heart tightens, and my stomach flips. This feels real.

I know it isn’t, I know it’s all a set-up. But it feels so fucking true.

“Lila Baker,” Charlie says, his voice louder now, back to the performance of the thing. The entire stadium is staring at us now, everyone from his teammates to the opposing team, who were halfway to their changing rooms when they stopped and turned around to gawk at the Hartford captain pulling this public stunt. Even the fans in the stands have stopped chanting, all of them leaning in a little, so they can hear. “Will you make me the happiest man on earth, and marry me?”

I press my lips together to keep from letting out a sound—what sound, I don’t know. Part of me wants to laugh. Another part, a bigger part, wants to cry. Tears sting at the backs of my eyes, and they feel like happy tears, except that can’t be right, because I have never cried happy tears once in my entire life.