Page 89 of Breakaway Daddies

I want them to know I’m in. If they still want me.

I want them to see me in the stands, ridiculous and grinning and way too loud, holding up a dumb sign and asking for one more shot.

I want to see their faces when the music starts.

And yeah, okay, maybe Ialsowant to be on the jumbotron kissing them in front of a screaming crowd, because go big or go home, right?

I glance at my phone. Still no response from the girls. Probably wrangling the logistics, or maybe just laughing themselves stupid over my text. Either way, I trust them to pull through.

I take a deep breath, then lean over the banner again and add three glittery red hearts at the bottom, one for each of them.

I sit back on my heels, glitter smeared across one cheek, and whisper to the room like I’m starring in the final act of a romcom:

“Showtime.”

My phone buzzes a few minutes later.

Kenzie sends a GIF of someone saluting with military level seriousness. Ally follows it up immediately:

>> DJ’s in. Announcer’s hyped. You’re officially insane. We love you anyway.

I let out a squeal that would make dolphins wince and grin at my phone like it’s a love letter from the universe.

Then I fling it onto the couch before turning back to my glorious monstrosity of a banner, now propped up on yoga blocks like it’s being honored for its service. A few flakes of glitter drift to the floor like celebratory confetti.

Worth it. So worth it.

Now? It’s go time.

I dive into my closet like I’m assembling a superhero costume. First, the Marauders tee, oversized, deliciously soft, and probably half composed of nostalgia and broken in dreams.

Then, the matching beanie I crocheted last fall, the one with the team colors spiraled into the brim. Bruno once said it looked like “someone bedazzled a tactical helmet,” and honestly, that only made me wear it more.

Next comes the pièce de résistance: my vintage Marauders hoodie. Faded, slightly ridiculous, and pure magic. I found it at a charity auction and nearly cried bidding on it. The logo is old school, and I love it with my whole heart.

I toss the hoodie onto the growing outfit pile and go fishing for the final touch, my lucky sneakers. The same ones I wore during a Vancouver game last year, the one where Thomas declared I was their “emotional support chaos gremlin” and made me pinky promise never to wash them.

I did. Obviously. I’m not feral.

Outfit complete, I stand back and assess myself in the mirror like I’m about to walk the carpet at the Oscars of sports fandom.

“You look like the world’s most emotionally unhinged fan girl,” I tell my reflection, lips quirking. “Perfect.”

Because tonight isn’t just about them. It’s aboutme, too. About finally saying what I want. No backup plan. No half measures. Just full-blown, banner-waving, lunacy. And I’m all in.

The game’s going to be epic, not just because the Marauders are favored to win, and they totally are, thank you very much, but because I’m about to unleash the most chaotic, glitter-filled, aggressively heartfelt romantic gesture this stadium has ever seen.

Take that, kiss cam. This is art.

I double-check the front pocket of my bag, fingers brushing the stiff edge of my ticket. Front row. By the ice. The kind of seat people summon demons for. It cost me a small fortune and possibly my soul.

Worth. It.

I blow out a shaky breath and lean against the door frame as the truth of it sinks in.

I’m really doing this. I’m really going to stand in the front row of a sold-out arena, hold up a glitter drenched banner, and ask three hockey players—three of the most ridiculous, infuriating, lovable idiots I’ve ever known—if they still want me.

If they do?

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