CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

N oah

Seeking Mr. Right blares on the TV, the upbeat theme song bouncing across the room for the umpteenth time.

Luke and I sit side by side on the couch, munching on popcorn as the handsome veterinarian compliments his way through a romantic dinner, his dining partner switching with each course.

Troy clears his throat from the doorway. "That's enough. I can't listen to that song again."

Luke and I glide our gazes to him. Troy crosses his arms, and his face is twisted into an expression not dissimilar to a team which just suffered a massive loss.

"Dude, you missing your AirPods?" Genuine worry crisscrosses Luke's face.

"Did it occur to you, Luke, that Noah might not want to spend his time watching a show called Seeking Mr. Right?"

"Um..." Luke furrows his brow. "Really? I mean, it's light and funny and they go on cool dates... Why wouldn't Noah want to watch it?"

"Maybe because Noah thought he had found his Mr. Right, and um..." Troy does a hand gesture that probably signifies something horrible.

"Are you doing a magic show for us?" Luke asks.

Troy frowns and releases his fingers. "No. I just don't think this show is appropriate."

"It shows a perfect guy. It's optimistic! And the dates are super cool. "

"It shows a handsome man with twenty women flinging themselves at him."

Luke's skin takes on a green hue, and I'm sure my pallor is worse. Finn can date all the people now.

Does Troy know something I don't? Is Finn already dating again? Is that why he didn't show up at the bar? I thought he wanted to give me privacy, but I've been wrong about Finn before.

My stomach churns, and suddenly there's nothing funny about the beautiful blonde batting her lashes at Mr. Right.

Luke grabs the remote control and turns off the TV. We will never know if they included a cheese course to bring back the crying blonde. "You want to go to the arena?"

"Nah. We don't get off days often. We're living in one of the best cities in the world. Let's sightsee. Take a walk."

"I guess we could do that." Luke scrunches his lips, then his eyes gleam, and his voice tempo quickens, "We can try to guess what dates they'll have in the Christmas version of Seeking Mr. Right when it comes to Boston next month!"

"Uh, yes. I guess we can do that." Troy's look turns pained, the way we hope other teams look when they realize they have to play us. "Who is Mr. Right going to be?"

"It was supposed to be some hotshot doctor, but he dropped out. Apparently, he found love on his own."

"A sign that he was truly a hotshot," I muse.

"Yep." Luke and I nod thoughtfully into the middle distance.

"So they don't have a Mr. Right yet?" Troy's eyes gleam, and it's suddenly easy to know what he's thinking.

Luke is oblivious. "I thought you weren't interested in the show."

"Just wondering how people get onto the show."

I grin. "We can check the website, Troy. Maybe there's an application form."

Troy nods, and his eyes dance. "Yeah, that sounds fun."

"You guys are strange," Luke says. "I don't know why you're giggling."

"Let's go out," I say. "See if we can figure out where they'll go on the show."

Troy winks at me as he fiddles with his phone.

"How tall are you, Luke?" Troy asks.

"Six foot three. Why?"

"Just wondering for hockey purposes."

We laugh as we stroll toward Newbury Street. The path takes us through the Public Gardens, and swan boats glide regally over the lake. Students and workers on their break stroll the gardens, and even though it's no longer spring or summer and the best flowers are no longer there, autumn-colored chrysanthemums squat in long rows.

Finally, we enter Newbury Street. An equal number of people stream the sidewalks, gawking at the window displays of designer stores. A few people wave at us, shouting "Go Blizzards!"

I love Boston.

But then my smile vanishes.

A man with curly golden-brown hair and a familiar gait laughs as he enters a store.

With a woman.

I can't see her face, but my heart already spins.

He's going shopping now? He doesn't seem distraught. And why should he be? He's free.

My fists tighten. It's none of my business what Finn does. I should be happy that he's happy. I am, in fact. Truly.

I swallow hard and turn to Luke. "You know, I'm almost positive they'll film something in Boston Common. Want to go there?"

"Totally!" Luke says happily.

I paste my brightest smile on my face, even though my heart pangs. "Let's go."

Then I set a fast pace, because I don't want Finn to see me.

FINN

Rain batters Coach Holberg's large floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sky is a dismal gray. A few people scurry outside, heads directed downward, flashes of primary-colored parkas. Coach taps his fingers against his desk. I know from the rhythm that he is unhappy, and when I turn back to him, his frown continues to sink downward. He is Swedish melancholy and despair. Finally, he sighs. "This is a terrible idea."

"I choose Noah every day. I want him to know."

"You know, most proposals are done in private. I once saw a proposal in a restaurant go wrong, and I bet the proposer never went to that restaurant again."

I wince.

"There were one hundred patrons around. Do you know how many people will witness this?"

"I know," I say.

"The other restaurant patrons didn't have a clue who this guy was. But these are people who do know who you are. Who do follow you. Hell, they've paid good money to do so."

"I know."

"And if it doesn't go well..."

I swallow hard. Coach Holberg seems to think it won't go well. I can't blame him.

"Look. I love Noah," I say.

Coach Holberg's stern blue eyes soften, and he looks less like a misplaced Prussian soldier missing his spiked helmet and saber than normal. "You're killing me."

"And he needs to know that."

"I'm sure you've told Noah that before," Coach says with a laugh. "I mean, I haven't seen any couple be quite as affectionate."

I don't join his laughter.

If only I'd told him.

"Finn? You did tell him?" Coach's eyes narrow. The man is onto me. But then there's a reason he's the coach for the Blizzards. There's a reason they dragged him all the way from the pastel buildings and cobbled streets of Stockholm, promising him all manner of money. There's a reason he's helped lead this team to so much greatness.

"We got married," I say.

It's a weak non-answer, and I still feel Coach's eyes over me. I don't want to confess everything. Not to him. He's Noah's boss, and I don't think he would want anyone to know the truth about our Vegas elopement.

Coach sighs. "I can't approve this."

I lean forward, swallowing back my desperation, trying to seem rational. "Noah loves me. Our whole relationship was in the public, and when we, um, first decided to marry, we weren't thinking about all of that."

"You were thinking about how much you loved each other."

"Yeah." I avert my gaze. "Noah needs to know that even when we have the choice of ending our marriage and having more quiet lives and going back to normal, I will still choose him. I will always choose him."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"What if it does?"

His lips curl, and a thoughtful expression forms on his features.

"Besides. Think how excited the fans would be."

Coach presses down his lips as if to stop himself from blurting out his agreement.

"And I'm one of your top players," I say, in case I need to remind him of that. I don't like pulling this card, but this is important.

"And this would make you happy?"

"It would make me ecstatic."

Coach Holberg sighs. "I'll think about it. That's all I can promise now."

"Okay." I rise. "Happy thinking."

I leave Coach's office, unsure of the meeting's success. Nervousness moves through me.

I enter the massage room and try to not remember the time when Noah and I snuck in here. Memories of Noah are in every part of this building.

I lie down for a massage and ache for Noah's touch.

This will work. It has to work.

I miss him so much.

I leave the massage room, and almost run into Noah. My eyes imbibe him. His skin pinkens.

"How are you?" I ask.

He grits his teeth, and his gaze bounces everywhere that wasn't me. "Fine."

I blink.

This isn't exactly amazing conversation.

At the game the other night it felt like we'd shared a moment after his winning goal. But now he doesn't meet my eyes, and his jaw is set, as if to restrain his anger.

Not good.

I'd imagined the first time we spoke would be different. Conversations, not clipped words. I'd imagined there would be shy smiles and rosy blushes and green eyes peering at me through long upturned eyelashes.

But Noah isn't smiling, isn't blushing, and he seems to do everything he can not to look at me.

Maybe Coach was right.

Maybe proceeding with tonight's plan would be a horrible mistake.

But when Noah enters the massage room, and I am alone in the hallway, I press my hand against the tiny velvet box tucked in my pocket .

Trying is the right thing to do. I am utterly, desperately in love with Noah.

I only hope that tonight my heart is not broken forever.