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“Come on,” she says, taking my hand and waving our little group forward. “Secret bathroom. Perk of working here.”
I give the hot dogs a longing glance but follow Parker as she shuttles us all through a metal door, giving the beefy security guard a pat on the shoulder as we walk through and into a mostly empty hallway.
In here, the sound of the bass and the crowd reverberates through the cinder block walls, giving the weird sensation of hearing through layers of water.
“This way,” she calls, practically sprinting down the hallway.
“What’s the rush?” I ask, wondering how far away this stupid private bathroom is. I could be eating a hot dog by now.
Parker tightens her grip on my hand. If we’re going to be friends, we’ll have to talk later about how I’m more into strolling than speed walking.
“Almost there,” she says. “Just through this hallway.”
The music is suddenly much louder as we make a turn. I balk as I realize Parker isn’t leading me toward another random hallway in the bowels of the Summit.
No—this looks a whole lot like an entrance onto the ice.
“This isn’t the bathroom.”
Parker manhandles me into a metal folding chair. “Sorry-not-sorry about this,” she says. “Don’t hate me, okay?”
Glancing back, I see Maggie, Beth, and Shannon all stopped, watching this unfold with knowing grins on their faces. Traitors. Clearly, this is some kind of conspiracy. I’m beginning to suspect I know exactly what kind.
“I don’t?—”
And now I’m being lifted up by two guys. Not just any guys. Two hockey players who are somehow carrying me, chair and all.
“Hold on and don’t wiggle.” I realize one of the guys carrying me is Van. “Eli would murder us if we dropped you.”
“Um, yes, please don’t drop me. Thanks.”
I’m white knuckling the seat of the metal chair, which suddenly feels very flimsy. What if it decides to fold itself back up right now?
“We’ve got you.”
The other guy’s voice is gruff. I can’t make out much besides dark stubble and dark hair, but his expression is intense. I swallow back an apology. I mean, this wasn’t my idea, after all. I’d one hundred percent rather be just about anywhere other than being carried out of this tunnel and onto the ice.
“Um, Van? Could you maybe put me down or take me back or, you know, just not do whatever this is?” I beg.
“No can do," Van says with a grin. "I’ve got orders.”
The other guy only grunts. I shrink down in the chair as much as I can while it’s being held in the air. The very last place I ever want to be is the center of attention. And at the Summit, the ice is pretty much the center of attention.
Is this … a proposal? I’m smart enough to recognize the signs, even if I stupidly thought we weren’t to this point yet. I’m still adding to my mental list of things to discuss. Surely, Eli wouldn’t spring a proposal on me.
Then I think of him showing up with a homemade candy bouquet. The way he made my birthday an event. The pages of references from his teammate.
Oh, yeah. Eli absolutely would surprise me with a huge proposal.
It makes sense, being public and all. I’m sure this will go viral, which will only help solidify our quickie marriage story.But I’d rather be stuck in a room full of rabid feral cats than be proposed to like this. And that’s saying something.
The crowd amps up, and the screams and shouts all meld into a deafening roar as the guys deposit my chair right in front of one of the goals. Another player skates up and hands me a helmet.
“You’re going to want this.” I’m momentarily distracted by his perfect white teeth, again wondering if hockey players losing teeth thing was a rumor.
“I am?”
That sounds foreboding. Maybe this isn’t a proposal after all? Because where I’m from, the ring isn’t usually accompanied by a helmet.
