Page 84 of Huge Pucking Play

"Hey. How's your day going?"

"Busy. Peterson's ankle is acting up again, and Reynolds is being a baby about his PT regimen."

I laugh. "Sounds about right. Listen, can you get away tonight? I want to take you somewhere."

"Hmm. Mysterious. I like it. What time?"

"Seven? Wear something nice."

"How nice are we talking?"

"That green dress. The one that makes your eyes look like..." I trail off, imaging the way she looks in it.

"Like what?" I can hear her smile through the phone.

"Just wear it." I clear my throat. "Please."

She laughs. "Okay, Coach. Seven it is."

By 6:30, I'm a mess of nerves. I check my watch every thirty seconds as I drive to her apartment. I'm wearing a suit—no tie, open collar. The box with her gift is heavy in my jacket pocket.

When she opens the door, I forget how to speak. The green dress hugs her curves, flowing gracefully over her growing baby bump. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders.

"You clean up nice, Hughes." She grins, grabbing a small clutch from the entryway table.

I find my voice. "You look absolutely stunning."

Her cheeks flush. "Flattery will get you everywhere. So where are we going?"

"You'll see."

In the car, she’s going nuts trying to guess. "Italian? That new place on Michigan? Or is it the French bistro you mentioned last week?"

I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the road. "Not telling."

When we pull up to the Peninsula, her eyes widen. "Oh my gosh, Garrett."

The valet takes my keys, and I guide her inside with a hand at the small of her back. The lobby gleams with understated luxury—all polished wood and soft lighting. The hostess greets us with a knowing smile and leads us to a private elevator.

"What's going on?" Cyn whispers as we ascend. "This is more than just dinner, isn't it?"

I squeeze her hand. "Maybe."

The elevator opens directly into the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the Chicago skyline, but it's the terrace that steals the show. Lit by strings of soft white lights and flickering candles, a single table awaits us. A bottle of sparkling cider chills in an ice bucket—alcohol is out for Cyn these days and, in solidarity, no booze for me either.

"Garrett." Her voice catches. "This is incredible."

The waiter appears as if summoned, seating us and explaining the custom menu. Cyn raises an eyebrow at me when he describes the scallop entree with miso glaze—her favorite.

"You arranged all this? How?"

I shrug, trying for nonchalance. "I know a guy."

"Clearly." She looks around, taking it all in. "What's the occasion?"

"Do I need an occasion to spoil you?"

Her eyes narrow playfully. "No, I guess not."

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