Page 142 of Power Play
This iseverything.
I don’t sleep much the night after the pub. I lie in bed with my brain bouncing off the walls, rehearsing every word I want to say, every second I want her to hear it. I picture Sophie’s face, all fierce, guarded, heartbreak carved into the lines around her mouth, and I wonder if I’m too late.
But I’m doing it anyway.
Because I love her.
And I won’t let her walk away thinking I didn’t fight for her.
First stop; Dylan.
I find him already at the rink, flipping through practice sheets with a mug the size of his head.
“You still in?” I ask, heart thumping like I’m about to propose.
He nods without looking up. “Coach said it’s unorthodox, but you’re cleared for three minutes post-game. Arena manager’s cool with it as long as you don’t swear or set anything on fire. Or get naked. That was a hard pass.”
“I make no promises.”
He smirks. “You sorted what you’re gonna say?”
“Half-written. But I know the bones of it.”
He leans back in his chair. “This is gonna bemessy.”
I grin. “Have youmetme?”
Next stop; Jacko and Ollie.
And if I’d had any faith that they’d behave professionally about this, it’s gone the second I mention “coordinated distraction.”
“You wantus,” Jacko says, pointing between him and Ollie like we’re at a police lineup, “to manage crowd control during your big speech?”
“I want you to hold up signs.”
Ollie perks up. “Like flashcards?”
“Exactly. But not cheesy. And no typos. And nothing that makes me sound like a Disney villain.”
Jacko scratches his beard. “Define cheesy.”
“No hearts. No glitter. No rhymes. And if you make a pun, I will legally change your name to Susan.”
Ollie’s already sketching on a napkin. “What if we start with ‘She’s here’? Build tension. Like, SHE. IS. HERE. And then you go in for the kill.”
Jacko whistles. “Dramatic. I like it.”
“This isn’t pantomime,” I mutter. “Just make sure the signs don’t distract from what I’m saying.”
“Signsarewhat you’re saying,” Ollie points out. “They’re the preamble. The foreplay.”
Jacko gives him a slow clap. “Nice.”
I bury my face in my hands.
We sneak into the stadium the next afternoon during a maintenance slot. Ollie has a duffel bag full of poster boards and Sharpies, and Jacko’s stress-eating a flapjack he baked at six this morning because “he works better fed.”
Dylan meets us by the penalty box.
