SEVEN MONTHS LATER
“READY ON PIPPA’S INTRO,” the stage tech says in my earpiece.
The arena buzzes with energy. Against the blinding stage lights, I can see the twinkle of phones in the crowd. My blood hums with a million emotions at once, and I take a deep breath, grounding myself. Throughout the tour, I’ve found a ritual in the moments before the show starts.
The last seven months have been insane.
Ivy Matthews started her own record label, and we recorded an album together.
My dream guitar is slung across my body, my fingers resting on the strings and the neck. A low hum pulses as the cheers die down. Everyone’s waiting, watching.
We released the album, and then everything went nuts. Two of the songs picked up speed on the charts, and Ivy pulled some strings in the industry to get me the opening spot on this tour. It normally takes years to make this kind of progress, but Ivy was determined.
There are nineteen thousand, seven hundred seats in this arena, and tonight, every single one is full. Sure, they’re here to see the artist I’m opening for on this tour, but I’m standing on stage in a pretty blue dress, playing music that I wrote.
A broad smile stretches across my face, and my heart swells. I’m here, living my dream, and I’m so grateful.
“Good evening, Vancouver,” I say into the mic, and the crowd cheers. “It’s so good to be home. I’m Pippa Hartley.”
The crowd cheers again, and I glance to the wings, where Jamie watches with a VIP pass hanging from his neck. The affection and pride in his eyes sets me on fire. He’s been following me on tour all summer, but the opening game of the season is later this week in this very arena, so we’ll do long distance until November, when the tour is over.
I brush my fingertips over my necklace, the one with the blue-gray stone. When I’m on stage or he’s on the ice, this is how I tell him I love him. I find myself doing it constantly, even when he’s not around.
“And this is a song about falling in love.”
The crowd roars, and I smile at Jamie.
“Pippa and band on five, four, three.”
Two, one.
The band and I begin to play the song I wrote about Jamie, and my heart is so full.
Two evenings later, we’re back in the same arena, except the floor is covered in ice instead of a sea of music fans. Jamie and the other players finish warming up, and I’m waiting by the entrance to the ice, microphone in hand. The hockey fans are brimming with excitement after last season. Although the Storm were eliminated in the first round of playoffs, they had a better season than usual, and Coach Tate Ward has won over the Vancouver fans.
“Ready?” the opening coordinator asks, and I give her a confident nod. My stomach tumbles with the familiar excitement I always feel just before stepping on stage, but it energizes me.
She says something into her earpiece, and the lights in the arena dim. The crowd cheers as the players line up in their spots.
“Please stand for the opening anthem,” the announcer says.
The coordinator gestures to me. “Ms. Hartley, that’s your cue.”
I glance down at myself in Jamie’s jersey, wearing his name on my back, and smile.
“Our talent tonight is homegrown,” the announcer continues. “Please welcome Pippa Hartley!”
I step onto the red carpet, and the crowd cheers. As I head to my mark, I catch a glimpse of myself up on the Jumbotron, grinning from ear to ear.
Jamie stands on his skates closest to my mark, shuffling on the ice to stay warm. I flash him a broad smile and give him a quick wave before my hand automatically brushes my necklace. Under his goalie mask, his eyes are bright. He’s happy to be back on the ice, I can tell. It’s been incredible having him with me on tour all summer, but this is where he belongs.
I take my spot, and once the camerawoman is in her position, I nod to the coordinator. A moment later, the music starts.
My voice is strong and clear as I sing the Canadian national anthem. My heart pounds harder than ever, and it feels incredible. It’s a moment I’ll never forget, and when I’m a hundred years old, I’ll think back to standing here on the ice, singing my heart out into the mic while Jamie looks on proudly.
I belt out the last notes, and when I’m done, the arena erupts. The Vancouver players are whooping and cheering way more than is appropriate, and I can’t help but laugh.
Jamie and I look at each other, and we’re wearing matching ear-to-ear smiles. He mouths something to me.
Songbird.
“Please give it up for Pippa Hartley,” the announcer says, and I wave at the crowd before walking to the entrance, off the ice. “Pippa, if you could just stay right there a moment.”
My brows snap together in confusion, but I stop walking. At the entrance, the coordinator is smiling at me, holding up a hand, mouthing stay there.
The arena hums and I look around, confused.
“Pippa.”
Jamie’s at my side, no longer wearing his helmet or the goalie pads on his legs, and I blink up at him. In his skates, he towers more than normal.
“What’s going on?” I ask, pulse stumbling. Everyone in the arena is watching, murmuring.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and his jaw ticks again. He’s been acting weird all day. Nervous, a little jumpy. I scared the daylights out of him earlier when I walked into the bedroom too quietly.
He takes my hands. The arena lighting makes him look even more handsome, with his sharp jaw, thick lashes, and strong nose.
“First,” he says, low enough so only we can hear, “you were the girl I had a crush on in high school. The girl who didn’t see how pretty, talented, special, and interesting she was.” His throat works. What the actual hell is happening right now? “And then you were my assistant, the distracting woman who demanded her job back and called me a dickhead.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and Jamie’s eyes dance.
“I don’t think I used the word dickhead,” I whisper.
Seriously, what is he doing? The entire arena is watching.
“You did,” he says. “You definitely did. And now you’re my girlfriend.” My eyes are locked on his and I can’t look away. “But I want you to be my wife, and I want to be your husband. I want us to be a family and live long, happy lives together.”
Understanding rushes at me like a freight train, and Jamie drops to his knee to tie his skate—
He’s not tying his skate. My heart pounds. He’s looking up at me, holding a small, black velvet box. It fits right in his big palm, and there’s something very sparkly inside. His free hand slips into mine, and he gives me a warm, reassuring squeeze.
I can already hear the song I’m going to write about this moment.
A rush of noise, cheering, whooping, applause swells around us, and my gaze snaps back to Jamie’s. It quiets down as the arena waits.
My heart is in my throat, and my eyes are welling up. “I want that, too. All those things.”
“I know we’re young.” His eyes search mine. “And that we haven’t even been together a year.” The corner of his mouth pulls up. “I don’t care, though. I love you, songbird. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re the one for me.”
I can’t even speak. I’m just smiling at him, blinking, while my pulse gallops. This doesn’t feel real. This feels like the best dream I could ever imagine. I’m so glad he isn’t mic’d for this. Even though everyone is watching, it feels like this moment is just for us.
“I think we should try something new,” he says, mouth twitching. His eyes are the brightest green I’ve ever seen. His expression is so soft, so sweet, so loving. “We should try being married.” His expression breaks and he huffs with amusement. “You should see your face.”
“Uh.” I’m laughing. “I’m busy looking at something else.” I can’t get a full breath as I meet his eyes. I think I’m crying. I’m not sure. “I love you, too.” It flies out of my mouth. Telling Jamie I love him is like breathing, it’s so effortless and true. A tear spills over, and his hand lifts to wipe it away. “I want to marry you.”
Jamie’s chest swells and his expression melts into something gorgeous. So proud and happy and at ease. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
He stands, and his mouth finds mine immediately. Our kiss is soft, intimate, and loving. Around us, the crowd is screaming, cheering, hollering, stamping their feet, rattling the glass, whistling.
I don’t even care that thousands of people are watching. Probably more, because this is being broadcast on TV.
Everything was worth it, all the heartache, all the pain, all the scary moments. They were all worth it for this, and I’d go through it a thousand times so I could end up with Jamie Streicher.
“You should probably look at the ring,” he whispers against the corner of my mouth.
I glance down at the box he’s holding, and I melt all over again.
“It’s like my necklace.”
A striking blue-gray stone sits on a white gold band, with tiny diamonds scattered around the perimeter of the large center stone. It’s delicate, unique, and perfect.
“Mhm. I wanted it to match, so you can wear this every day, too.” He gently pulls it out of the box. “You want to try it on?”
I can’t take my eyes off this ring. I’ve never seen anything like it. “Yes, please.”
Jamie’s deep chuckle makes me smile, and I flush with pleasure as he slides the ring onto my left ring finger. The arena explodes with noise, and I swear the ice is shaking under my feet from the volume. The players are tapping their sticks on the ice, grinning and whooping for us.
“I love it.” I bite my lip as my chest squeezes with a million warm, fluttery emotions.
Jamie holds my hand, and when I look up into his eyes, I see it all in front of us. This is just the beginning, and I can’t wait to see where our incredible life goes.
“You ready to be mine?” I ask.
“Songbird.” He smiles down at me with that breathtaking smile that’s just for me. He smiles at me like I’m adorable, and like he loves me more than anything. “I always have been.”
Hazel and I are in the box upstairs with Donna, waiting for the third period to start. Donna keeps grabbing my hand and grinning at the ring before tearing up.
She’s so excited. It’s adorable.
Hazel’s phone buzzes, and she unlocks it. Around us, other staff members are pulling out their own phones as notifications chime. Hazel’s eyes move across her phone screen, and she goes rigid.
“Hello.” I nudge her.
When her eyes meet mine, she looks like she’s about to be sick. Or faint. I’m not sure.
“There’s a new trade memo,” she says quietly. The team staff get an email every time a new player is traded to the team so each department can prepare.
The emotionless tone to her voice makes me pause. “Who is it?”
Her movements are swift as she shoves her phone into her back pocket. “Rory Miller.”
At her side, her fingertips brush in fast circles. Her nervous tell.
The season is about to get interesting.
