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“Three months?” I quiz, sounding shocked.
Lifting one shoulder to her ear, she shrugs off my disbelief. “We were meant to be.”
“I felt the same way about your mom,” Dad whispers in my ear. “We got married six months after our first date.”
I recall how Mom loved sharing how romantic my dad was; arranging a picnic in her favorite spot in the park by the river she used to take me and my sister to as kids in Spruce Plain. It’s where he proposed, and they visited every year on their wedding anniversary. They loved each other unconditionally, and I always admired the bond that held them together more firmly than superglue. I wish she were here tonight. She would have loved this. Her and Dad loved watching all the hockey together. How Dad is coping without her, I will never know. He’s been so strong.
“You guys move fast,” I chuckle. Three months and six. Can you even organize a wedding in that time?
I guess it’s proof enough for me that fated love isn’t just a rumor or based on science. It’s true, it can hit as quickly and as powerfully as a thunderbolt.
There is no denying the instantaneous attraction between Ash and me. Even Kourtney said the chemistry between us was so intense you could literally see the sparks fly in the two short times she’s seen us together.
“And you are overthinking, Lily.” My dad gives me a peck on the cheek. “What did your mom used to tell me to do?”
“Chill out,” I confirm. When my dad would come home from a stressful day in court, she would make him sit down with a beer to take a moment and tell him to chill out. As a divorce lawyer, my dad often said he saw what losing someone you once loved did to people, both the best and the worst.
Not giving me any more time to freak out, my dad says, “Oh, here we go.” He rubs his hands together as everyone around us cheers and whoops loudly, the arena falling into darkness. Neon yellow and blue lights illuminate the rink, while laser beams pierce the air, dancing in time to the thumping music that’s louder than before.
I watch the spectacle and fanfare with fascination. The overhead giant screens light up and the crowd grows even louder when each player is introduced and skates onto the ice.
When Ash’s name is announced, I go wild and throw my hands in the air, screaming his name and cheering for him. Skating past me, he winks and smiles, making my heart flip in my chest.
Wow, that man is gorgeous.
Music booming and having never watched the first game of the season before or a game from start to finish, I can’t believe the amount of fun these guys have out on the ice before a game, playing up for the crowd, and entertaining them with tricks and interacting with the fans.
The music changes and the sound of “We Are the Champions” by Queen booms out from the sound system, sending the crowd into a frenzy, the rink now swimming in a sea of blue and yellow.
The lights dim and a mixture of jeers and boos begins as the opposition steps into the arena like a colony of ants. The lights turn up again and that’s when I see him.
Ash separates himself from his team. Eyes glued to mine, he makes a beeline for me and stops on the other side of the Perspex directly in front of our seats. He beckons me to him.
Low huddled whispers of speculation move around me as they try to figure out who I am.
Any minute now, they’ll all know; I’m Ash Johansson’s girl.
You’re mine.
His words have been looping around my mind like a song stuck on repeat.
As if by magic, I’m on my feet, facing him through the plastic divide. He slips his protective helmet up, revealing himself, and I almost gasp at how gorgeous he looks.
Face flushed, excitement sparkling in his eyes, he’s so handsome, it’s almost hard to believe he would like plain little me.
“You good?” he mouths, his face flooded with concern.
I bounce my head enthusiastically. “I’m great,” I shout through the Perspex, feeling better now I’ve seen him.
This feels right.
He gifts me with an enormous smile then holds his glove covered hand up against the plastic wall and I take that as I sign for me to place mine on the opposite side of the cool Perspex.
When I do, the crowd goes bananas, screaming and cheering his name, as a few two-note wolf whistles give us their approval.
I throw my head back and laugh at how insane being in the limelight is, but I feel lighter than a helium balloon in the wind as he shows me off to the world.
“Give ‘em hell.” I slam my hand against the plastic divide as if giving him a high five.
