Page 112 of Burn

“Pfft… It was fairly unreciprocated, so my experience left much to be desired.”

By the time the second period starts, I’m confident they’re not in a casual, undefined relationship. She sleeps at his house, knows how he takes his coffee, and that he’s oddly good at gardening, promising to build her a veggie box in the spring. I don’t press it, because she’s glowing in an entirely new way that I’ve never seen from her.

The players move so fast that it’s hard to keep up, and I often find myself watching the wrong areas. The players laugh, fight, and shove at each other. Every flash of 55 trips my heart, and I’m fascinated by his laser focus. Everyone else seems to be playing, but Adrian appears intense and serious. There are five minutes left in the period when Rosie pulls her phone from her pocket and opens a text.

Her hand slams into my arm, and her mouth falls open.

“What?” I ask.

She smirks at me. “Don’t freak out.”

“Okay, not the way to start because now I’m freaking out. What?”

“Brittney just texted me,” she says, her smile growing.

“You’re on a texting basis with their social media person? Tell me again that he’s not your boyfriend,” I tease, trying to avoid the freak-out happening in my brain.

She nudges me playfully. “Not my boyfriend. She asked us to stay in our seats after the period ends.”

I glance at the clock. Three minutes, fifteen seconds.

“Rose — why?”

“You trust me, right?”

Haven’t trusted anyone in two months.

“Sure,” I lie.

With a minute left, Colton scores, tying the game. Rosie cheers, jumping up and down, and when the buzzer sounds the end of the period, she abruptly drops to her seat and says, “Don’t move.”

The arena lights dim, and music fills the speakers. This is different. It’s not loud rock or energetic club music. It’s a melodic, instrumental, and cinematic tune. I look around, searching for whatever is happening. The announcer’s voice cracks over the speakers again. “Okay, folks. Before we enter the final period of this tied game, we have a special message for someone in the crowd.”

Oh no.

Rosie spins to face me, her face lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. Her eyes are shiny.

No. No. No.

“To the woman in the black hoodie in Section 103, Row A, Seat 5 — Adrian Liberty wants to say something.”

My heart, which had been pounding, screeches to a halt.

“He asks that you wait in your seat after the game. He’ll come to find you. This song is for you — he wants you to know how lovely you are.” The announcer goes silent asThe ScientistbyColdplayfills the packed arena.

The crowd oohs, a guy across the ice screams, “Let’s go!”

Above the ice, the Jumbotron flickers, and before I can flee the scene, my face fills the screen. I freeze, watching my wide eyes and mouth open in shock. My fingers twitch, wanting to pull my hood over my head to hide. The live stream of our section is grainy, but it does nothing to hide the flush of red spreading across my cheeks and the look of complete horror on my face.

I’m fucking mortified.

From a row behind us, a girl grabs my shoulder and shakes me, “Oh my god, honey. Marry him!”

Heat surges through my body, collecting in my cheeks. Every set of eyes is on me, and my fucking skin crawls. My brain takes its moment to gloat.

‘Told you so.’

The song plays as my heart races.

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