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Eli finally skates through the center of the rink toward me, stopping about fifteen feet away. Bruno Mars is still singing in what must be the longest song in the whole world. Between the noise of the crowd and the blood pounding in my ears, I can barely hear the music.
I definitely don’t hear whatever Eli says before he lines up the puck and sends it my way.
I can’t help it. I flinch.
Which is totally silly because he barely nudges the puck sliding my way. It comes to stop right at my feet, joined a moment later by Eli, who slides onto both knees before me.
Only then do I notice the ring box taped to the puck.
Breathe, Bailey. Breathe.
Eli rips of his gloves, prying my fingers off the side of the chair and curling his hands around mine.
“Bailey? What’s wrong?”
I open my mouth, but it takes several tries before I can croak out an intelligible response. “I think I’m having an anxiety attack. Or maybe not officially? Maybe I’m just freaking out.”
His arms are suddenly around me, tugging me against his solid chest. He feels different with the pads on—smells a little different too, which I’m going to ignore—but his warmth is familiar. His strong arms, banded firmly around me, ease the tightness in my chest. Even if only a little.
The crowd must assume I said yes to the fastest proposal ever because the cheering reaches deafening levels. My heartbeat kicks up again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m ruining your whole thing.”
“No,I’msorry,” Eli says fiercely, lips grazing my ears.
His arms tighten protectively around me. The more pressure, the safer I feel and the more my heart rate slows.
“Is the helmet helping?” he asks. “Or is it making things worse?”
“Worse,” I say. And though things get louder and feel closer the moment he removes it, there’s also another notching down of tension.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and one of his hands slides up my back, gently rubbing.
“There’s no way you could have known. I’ve never actually had an anxiety attack. If that’s even what this is.”
I’d place a hefty bet that it is. But the last thing I want is Eli feeling worse about it.
“I absolutely should have known. You’ve mentioned being shy. I just didn’t think about it because you seem so different with me.”
“You make me feel safe,” I confess.
And it’s true. So true that my breathing is now even. I can’t hear the rushing of blood in my ears anymore either.
“Ididmake you feel safe.” His voice has a hard edge. “Then I went and did something stupid.”
“No, Eli?—”
“Let’s get you out of here.”
As he gets to his feet, Eli keeps me cradled to his chest like I weigh no more than a piece of paper. And that’s when the music changes.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Because Bruno Mars’s never-ending song has given way to “Kiss Me.”
And the crowd goes wild.
I mean, of COURSE after a romantic engagement, they’d expect people to kiss. People who are getting engaged forreal. Not two people doing this for reasons not having to do with romance. And have never, in fact, kissed.
