Page 32 of Summer with a Player

Asher is out there somewhere, a warrior among warriors, his muscular form gliding across the rink with effortless grace. His wavy black hair is a dark blur beneath his helmet, those piercing green eyes surely fixed on the puck, on the win, on everything but me.

"Jet! Jet! Jet!" The nickname they love to chant crashes against my ears, reminding me of how high he flies on the ice—and how far we've both fallen off it.

My fingers curl around the banner, the fabric suddenly feeling like the only lifeline I have left. There's no turning back now. This is it—the moment to lay bare my heart in the boldest way I know.

"Please, let this work," I whisper into the clamor, a prayer for both of us, for the love I'm not ready to leave behind on cold ice.

The sounds around the arena are like a tidal wave of noise that you can almost ride like the surf back at Love Beach. I'm tucked away in the stands, flanked by Florence and Calvin, their faces painted with Renegades red and black, mirroring the fervor of every soul here.

"Elle, you look like you're about to jump out of your skin," Florence says, her hand squeezing my shoulder—a tether to reality when all I want to do is float away on this sea of anxiety.

"Or pass out," Calvin adds, passing me a bottle of water, his brow furrowed with brotherly concern.

I take a shaky sip, my fingers fumbling against the cold plastic. "Just waiting for the right moment," I manage, my voice barely audible over the roar of the spectators.

The game is a blur of motion, a ballet of brawn and ice, but all I can focus on is the banner crumpled in my lap, its message hidden just like the jumble of emotions knotting my stomach. The fabric feels like sandpaper against my sweaty palms, a stark contrast to the smoothness of Asher's jersey clinging to my body—a talisman worn for luck, for love, for everything I'm daring to hope for.

"Look, there he is!" Calvin points, and my gaze shoots to number 17, Asher, my Asher, maneuvering the puck with the kind of skill that makes it look like child's play. My heart hammers against my ribs, threatening to burst free. It pounds in time with the staccato beat of skates on ice, with each cheer that rises from the depths of the arena.

"Time to make your move, Elle," Florence nudges me, her eyes sparkling with mischief and encouragement.

"Okay." The word is a ghost of sound, but it's all I need to propel myself up from my seat.

And then I'm moving, threading through the rows of spectators, their shouts and whoops creating a soundtrack to my mission. With each step, I feel as if I'm shedding a layer of the old Elle—the one who would've never had the guts to do what I'm about to do now.

I reach the railing, the edge of the world as far as I’m concerned, and unfurl the banner with trembling hands. It catches the light, the bold letters screaming the truth for all to see: "ASHER GRAY, YOU'RE MY MVP IN LOVE AND LIFE."

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by an eruption of cheers and whistles. Heads turn, eyes wide, searching for the source of the interruption—searching for me.

On the ice, Asher's stride falters, just for a heartbeat. His head snaps up, those striking green eyes scanning the stands until they find the message, find me. There's a stillness that hangs heavy in the air, a silent stretch of time where everything and everyone seems to hold their breath.

Then, the crowd goes wilder than before, their excitement shifting from the game to the drama unfolding off the rink. They've always loved a good love story, especially when it plays out live, larger than life.

"Elle! You did it!" Florence's shout barely registers above the chaos, but her hug says it all—pride, joy, solidarity.

"Man, look at him. He's shell-shocked," Calvin chuckles, clapping a hand on my back.

My whole body vibrates, every nerve ending alight with the hope that this grand gesture bridges the distance between ourhearts. I stand there, the banner lifted high, and I know that the true surprise isn't just the words on the fabric—it's the raw vulnerability behind them, the promise of a forever that starts with forgiveness.

"Please," I whisper to no one and everyone, to the universe that's carried me this far, "let this be enough."

The roar of the crowd pulses in my ears, a din that somehow sharpens my focus on him—on Asher. He's gliding over the ice, a picture of grace and power, but now, he's come to an abrupt halt. His gaze locks onto the banner, onto the declaration of my heart splayed out for all to see.

"Elle...?" His voice is a distant echo, carried across the rink by a microphone someone hands him in the confusion. The word hangs amongst us, a plea, a question, laced with a vulnerability I've never heard from him before.

"Come on, Asher," I murmur under my breath, willing him to understand, to accept this leap of faith. Around me, the spectators are a blur, their excitement a mere backdrop to the drama at center ice.

His eyes remain fixed on the banner, on me, as if he's trying to read the subtext woven into every thread—my apology, my hope, my love. The muscles in his jaw flex, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, the internal battle playing out behind those piercing green eyes. Does he dare believe? Is he ready to trust that what we had isn't lost?

"Jet! Jet! Jet!" The chant builds around us, the fans rallying behind their star player, but it's not his prowess with the puck they're cheering for now—it's the possibility of a love rekindled, right there on the ice.

Then, he skates closer, close enough that I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his chest heaves beneath the red and black jersey. Every stride he takes resonates through the soles of my feet standing there in the stands, the thud of my heartbeat keeping time.

"Elle," Asher says again, and this time it's not a question but a realization. His voice breaks, barely audible over the dissonance, but I feel it deep in my bones. It's the sound of walls crumbling, of defenses giving way to the tidal wave of emotions that I've unleashed with a single, grand gesture.

"God, Elle," he whispers, voice cracking like thin ice under the weight of everything unsaid. "I had no idea."

A tear escapes, trailing down my cheek, as warm as the blood coursing through me, as salty as the ocean air that envelops Love Beach. This moment is fragile, precious—a turning point that could mend or break us.

---