22. The Proposal

22

The Proposal

Hayley

All afternoon, I've had a hard time concentrating, my mind constantly wandering to our makeout session earlier. It doesn't help that Maxime's cologne is all over me, reminding me how close our bodies were and how he made me feel.

I'm now getting ready for tonight's game, and I don't have to think twice about what I'm wearing. On game day, I'm sporting my boyfriend's jersey. I pair it with jeans and some Converse before putting a bit of makeup on. It's not a habit of mine, since mirrors and I don't get along, but the way Maxime looks at me is helping in that department.

I almost bump into Alice when I leave my room.

"Sorry," I say. "Wow, you look fantastic." And she really does. She's wearing a little black dress with stilettos, her hair brought up in an elegant bun. Her light makeup looks classy, not that she needs it. Alice is naturally gorgeous, even minutes after waking up. Trust me. I've seen it.

"Thank you." She looks down at her outfit. "I'm crossing my fingers that this guy is the one."

If you didn't know her, you'd think she was joking. But as I said before, Alice is an unconditional romantic who's convinced her one true love is out there somewhere. I've always had a more cynical view on the matter, but recent events have changed my stance. "I'm rooting for you."

"Oh, you look great too," she says. "I still can't believe you're actually dating my brother. But I kind of love it. He's new at this, though, so remember to tell him what you need."

I tend to forget that Maxime has never really had a serious girlfriend. But so far, he's a pro. I dip my head in agreement, and together, we walk to the living room where Emma is waiting for me, scrolling on her phone. She's wearing a black sweatshirt and leggings. Her apparel of choice .

We say goodbye to Alice before Emma and I trek to the arena. As we get closer, more and more NY Raptors jerseys enter our line of vision, and I can't help but notice the number of girls who are wearing Maxime's name on their back. Sure, it's not as prevalent as the other guys' jerseys—James Adler and Aaron Miles seem particularly popular—but it's still a significant number. Seeing them both makes me swell with pride and want to rip his name off their backs. I'm not surprised, though. He's off to a great start in his NHL career.

When I went to buy mine, there were only two left in my size, and all the XS and S jerseys were sold out. Looks like the women who bought them are all here tonight. Each one more beautiful than the next.

I force myself to ignore the self-loathing that's creeping in and instead picture Max's gaze earlier during our makeout session. Never before has a guy looked at me that way. Not Trevor, and definitely not Rex or Ludo, the cheaters. That look will always be attached to Maxime Beaumont. No matter what happens in the coming months.

We step into the arena, grab some corndogs, and find our seats. Max got us prime spots right behind the glass, near the home bench. I brought my hockey book along because I thought, how much more immersive can this be? But now that I'm here, I can't bring myself to open it. The warmups haven't even started, and already the arena is buzzing with excitement. The space in front of the glass is soon filled with fans hoping to get a peek at the players as they're warming up. Tonight, the Raptors are playing the New York Sharks, the other local team, and apparently, matches between the two always get violent.

Suddenly, movement stirs on the left. Sure enough, the announcer tells the crowd that the teams are now taking to the ice for warm-up drills.

An avalanche of pucks is launched on the ice, and the players jump onto the rink, speed skating toward their goal, scoring and shooting them. I immediately spot Maxime, one of the few players without his helmet and the most handsome guy on the ice. A few players pause for some stretching while others, like Max, practice their speed skating moves. Then, Max gathers all the pucks from the net, sending them back toward center ice. Wilcott takes his spot in front of the goal, and they all start shooting pucks at him. The warm-up drills keep going like that for a while, the players occasionally switching their tactics. When he skates past, Maxime waves at us, and a few other players do too.

When the warm-up rounds are almost over, a group of girls fill the seats next to us. They're all slim, stunning, and half of them are wearing Maxime's jersey .

Jealousy builds in my core, but I try to ignore it. I'll need to get used to this if I'm going to date him. And frankly, the advantages of dating Max far outweigh the drawbacks, although this particular hiccup is a frustrating one.

They tap the glass when the players are nearby, and most of them give the girls a wave or a high five through the glass, including Maxime. I have no right to be jealous, I know that. They're fans, and they want the guys' attention. But I don't think sitting in the front row is good for my mental health. Though I'm sure some therapists would say this is the best way to fight my demons.

The teams get off the ice, and soon after, the pre-game ceremony starts. Finally, the puck drops. The first period kicks off with a bang as Maxime scores a goal with only four minutes on the clock. The crowd erupts into cheers, and he does the moonwalk along the bench to celebrate, high-fiving his teammates as he goes. The sound technicians catch on right away, playing "Billie Jean" by Michael Jackson.

In a flash, the game resumes, and it's obvious the intensity has risen a level after that first goal. Players get slammed against the glass a lot more often than in the other games I've seen, making the barrier shudder every time.

"Can the glass break?" Emma asks, concern clouding her face .

I bite my nails as Maxime gets slammed again on the other side of the ice. "I don't know."

"That'd be crazy. Kind of awesome, but also dangerous."

Emma and I have totally different thrill levels. Seeing Max—or any of the guys—being thrown through the glass would be absolutely terrifying.

The game keeps building in intensity, and two fights have already broken out. I'm now watching the clock, eager for the first period to end so the players have some time to cool down. The girls next to us seem to love all the testosterone, yelling Max's name and clapping after every spat or collision smashing him against the glass. I'd like to do some fighting of my own, and I would probably win, but I'm guessing I would get more than a five-minute penalty if I broke one of their noses.

Emma doesn't hide her disdain, throwing the squealing girls her infamous death side glare, and I love her for it. Right before the first period ends, the Sharks score, and I can see both teams are still worked up when they get off the ice.

The second period is more of the same, only with more fights and no goals. The third period starts on a better note with Maxime scoring eight minutes in. The crowd goes crazy again, and pride fills me as he lies on the ice, pretending to do push-ups while the rest of the team gather around him.

The girls go wild next to us, jumping and tapping on the glass, and I try my best to ignore them.

Barely five minutes later, Maxime speeds toward the goal, passes to Hawthorne who passes it back to him, and scores again.

If I thought the crowd went wild last time, but this is a totally different beast! Dozens upon dozens of hats are thrown on the ice. Max breaks his hockey stick in two, and I'm honestly a little shocked by his strength. I don't know how much those things weigh, but they're not exactly toothpicks. He raises his arms in the air, asking the crowd to roar louder, and they heed his command as the guys come hug him.

More hats are tossed onto the ice to celebrate Max's big hat trick, and the blonde girl next to us unclips her bright pink bra. She throws it right on top of him as he's circling back to high-five the guys on the bench. He grabs the piece of lingerie from his shoulders, and his eyes widen when he realizes what it is. Adler and Miles are barking with laughter as he tosses it into one of the bags of an ice crew member skating by, but the girl hasn't had her last word.

She stands up and taps on the glass. "Marry me, Maxime," she shouts .

I don't know if he heard her, but she certainly got his attention. He gives her a little wave before skating to the bench.

"He's so hot!" she gushes, sitting back down.

"I know," her friend says in a loud voice to carry over the cheers. "So dreamy. We have to figure out a way to meet them after the game."

The girl seated next to me nods eagerly, bringing all my insecurities back to the surface. I try to picture Maxime's face earlier when he couldn't stop kissing me, or that look in his eyes when he came back to the bookstore after the away game, but I can't. It's distorted and soon replaced by the blonde girl next to me. I can't help but think how many more like her make up the NHL fanbase. Braless girls with perfect bodies who would stop at nothing to get the players' attention. They probably number in the thousands. Not just at home games, but also during his road games. Temptation will rain down on him.

It's like someone just flicked off the lights in my brain as my thoughts wander down this route. I try to push back, but this negative force is stronger, pulling me into my insecurities, reminding me what I'm up against.

"Are you okay?" Emma asks with a frown, her hand on my forearm .

I return to reality, the arena lights suddenly blinding me. "Yeah. I'm good."

"Are you sure? You don't look so good."

"It's just weird, you know?" I say, almost in a whisper. "Girls proposing and throwing their bras at him."

Her face scrunches up in disgust. "Yeah."

I wanted to say, How could he choose me when he could have any of them?

But the words don't come out, remaining firmly lodged in my throat.