Page 192 of Revenge Puck

“Declan?”

The Zamboni makes one more pass, then slows.

Stops.

The driver—an older man with a gray mustache, thick jacket, and Carhartt overalls—kills the engine. The sudden silence feelsenormous. He climbs down, wipes his hands on a rag, and looks directly at me.

“Juliette?” he calls.

My stomach drops nervously. “Yes?”

He jerks his chin toward the ice. “This way.”

“Excuse me?”

He gestures again, completely unfazed by my confusion. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Curiouser and curiouser…

I glance around: No Declan. No figure, skating at center ice like some brooding hockey prince.

“Do I need skates?” I ask, because apparently this is happening.

The man chuckles. “Nope.”

He leads me directly onto the rink. The cold is colder down here, and I wish I’d worn a thicker coat. Or—I wish I’d worn a coat, period.

And then I see it.

At center ice.

A table.

A literal round table with two chairs, sitting on the freshly smoothed surface like the world’s most impractical dinner reservation.

A white tablecloth.

Two place settings.

Wine glasses. Wine.

A single candle glowing in the center.

I stop walking and almost fall on my ass. “You havegotto be freaking kidding me.”

The Zamboni driver grins, giddy with delight that he’s in on a secret. “Watch your step,” he says, offering me his arm like he’s leading me to a debutante ball.

“How is this even allowed?” I mutter as he helps me onto the ice.

It’s not slippery the way I expect—there’s some kind of thin rubber matting laid down in a path toward the table.

I feel like I’ve wandered into a proposal video on TikTok, except I am not getting engaged—I’m getting emotionally ambushed.

We reach the table. The candle flickers. The arena lights overhead cast everything in an ethereal glow.

It’s beautiful.

It’s ridiculous.