Page 90 of Rookie's Redemption
Twenty minutes later, I'm walking out of Tiffany's with a small blue bag that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds and contains my entire future.
My phone buzzes as I hurry toward the hotel.
Coach Brody: SCOTT! Where the hell were you? We've got a game in four hours!
Shit.
I break into a run, dodging tourists and late-night shoppers as I race the six blocks back to the hotel. Coach is waiting in the lobby, arms crossed and wearing the expression that usually precedes sprints until someone pukes.
"Sorry, Coach!" I pant, sliding to a stop in front of him. I try to hide the smile on my face, but it won't go away. "Had to take care of something important."
"Important enough for push-ups?" His eyes narrow dangerously. "Drop and give me fifty! And don't disappear on me again before a game!"
He smacks the back of my head, hard enough to make my eyes water, then shoves me forward until I'm facing the glossy marble tiles of the hotel foyer.
The Tiffany bag crinkles against my chest as I drop, trying to protect it while simultaneously accepting my punishment.
"Yes, sir."
I start counting out push-ups, still smiling. A few teammates have gathered to watch, clearly entertained by my punishment, but I'm grinning like an idiot the entire time.
Totally worth it.
"...forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!" I spring back to my feet, slightly winded but still smiling.
Coach shakes his head, but I catch the hint of amusement in his eyes. "Whatever you bought better have been worth making me look like an ass in front of the team."
"Trust me, Coach. It was."
The game against the Rangers is a blur of speeding skates, perfectly precise passes and pure adrenaline.
I play like a man possessed, which isn't far from the truth. Every time I think about the small bulge of the ring box in my equipment bag, I skate harder, check cleaner, pass with more accuracy than I've ever managed before in my life.
We win 4-2, and I rack up two assists that have the New York sports writers asking if I'm having a career year. But all I can think about as we celebrate in the locker room is getting home to Mia.
"Flight leaves at eight AM," Blake announces as we pack up our gear. "Which means wheels up at seven-thirty, which means lobby at six-thirty, which means—"
"We know the drill," Connor interrupts. "Some of us have done this before, Captain."
I'm only half-listening, too busy making sure the ring box is secure in my carry-on bag. Tomorrow I'll be home. Tomorrow I can start planning how to propose to the woman who's been the center of my universe since I was seventeen years old.
The flight home feels endless despite being only a few hours. I check my phone obsessively, reading and re-reading Mia's texts from this morning.
Mia: Can't wait to see you! I have a surprise for you when you get home.
Mia: Meet me at your house around 5?
Mia: I love you. Fly safe.
But I smile. Because her surprise has nothing on mine.
The anticipation is killing me. I keep touching the ring box through my carry-on bag, making sure it's real, making sure this isn't some elaborate dream I'm going to wake up from.
"You're vibrating," Blake observes from the seat beside me.
"What?"
"You're literally vibrating with nervous energy. It's like sitting next to a tuning fork." He grins. "When are you going to ask her?"
