"Don't." She pressed her forehead against mine. "One crisis at a time."
The party at Theo's was subdued by Stanley Cup standards—no one jumped off the roof into the pool, only two lamps died, and the cops never came. I'd announced my retirement in the locker room yesterday, watching my teammates' faces shift from shock to understanding as they tookin my knee, now swollen to twice its normal size despite ice and elevation.
"Two weeks' notice," I'd told Coach. "Surgery Monday. Then I'm done."
"The assistant coach position's yours," he'd said immediately. "Whenever you're ready."
Now I sat on Theo's couch, leg elevated on three pillows, Finn drooling on my shoulder, while Serena fielded video calls from her parents.
"Twins?" her mother shrieked through the phone. "And engaged? And Stanley Cup? Should I be sitting down?"
"You are sitting, Mom."
"I should lie down. Twins. My daughter who swore to never be in relationship again is engaged and having twins."
I caught Serena's eye and we shared that look—the same stunned expression we'd had three days ago when Dr. Lisa had moved the ultrasound wand around during what was supposed to be a routine checkup to make sure everything was developing normally.
"Well," she'd said, pausing the screen, "everything looks very healthy. Both babies."
"Both?" Serena and I had said in unison.
"You didn't know? Oh my. Yes, see here and here? Two heartbeats, two little ones. Congratulations."
We'd sat in that exam room afterward, holding hands and staring at the ultrasound photos like they were written in a foreign language.
Across the room now, Sarah's parents sat with the Cup, running their fingers over its surface, probably wondering howtheir quiet evening had turned into this chaos of celebration and life-changing news.
Maria appeared, dropped onto the couch beside us with zero grace. "So. Twins. You know that means two college tuitions, right?"
"We'll figure it out," Serena said, but I heard the worry underneath.
"Maybe I should continue playing—" I started.
"You absolutely will not." Serena's teacher voice emerged. "You're getting surgery. You're learning to walk properly again. You're going to be able to dance at our wedding without crying."
"Bold of you to assume I won't cry at our wedding anyway."
"Emotional crying. Not physical pain crying."
"What's the difference?"
"About six months of physical therapy."
Finn stirred, mumbled something about dragons, then settled deeper into my shoulder. His breathing was perfect—deep, even, unobstructed. A minor miracle we'd learned not to take for granted.
"Hey," I said quietly, pulling Serena closer. "We're having twins."
"We're having twins," she agreed, equal parts wonder and panic.
"And getting married."
"And getting married."
"And I'm retiring."
"Thank God for that."
Finn chose that moment to wake up, blinking confusedly at the room full of adults in various stages of inebriation. "Did we win?" he asked sleepily.
