"You’re asking for trouble," I laugh.
"They'll be perfect," he says with absolute certainty. "Just like their mother."
The moment stretches between us, full of future possibilities and present contentment. This is what love looks like, I think—not just the passion and excitement, but this quiet certainty, this sense of building something together that's bigger than either of us alone.
"I'll take the job," I say suddenly.
"What?"
"The community outreach position. I'll take it."
His face lights up like I've just handed him the Stanley Cup. "Really?"
"Really. But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"I want input on hiring decisions for community-facing positions. I want a budget for local partnerships and youth programming. And I want it understood that my first loyalty is to this town, not to profit margins."
"Done, done, and done." He lifts me off my feet, spinning me around the empty arena. "You're going to be incredible at this."
"I hope so."
He sets me down gently, his hands lingering on my waist. "I know so. You have this gift for making people feel seen, for remembering what matters to them. That's exactly what this team needs."
The confidence in his voice makes something settle into place in my chest. This feels right—using my abilities not to serve someone else's agenda, but to build something meaningful in the place I've chosen as home.
"So," I say, sliding my arms around his neck, "business partners and life partners. Think we can handle it?"
"Sweetheart," he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that never fails to make my pulse skip, "I think we can handle anything."
He kisses me then, soft and sure and full of promise, and I taste our future on his lips—hockey games and community barbecues, late nights planning events and early mornings stealing quiet moments before the day begins.
When we break apart, the empty arena around us doesn't feel empty anymore. It feels full of possibility, of dreams taking shape and love building something lasting.
"Come on," I say, taking his hand. "Let's go home. I have a victory dinner to cook, and you have a facility to finish building."
"Just call me yours," he murmurs against my ear as we head toward the exit.
I squeeze his hand, my heart full to bursting. "Always."
Outside, the Colorado sky is painted in shades of gold and pink, and Cedar Falls stretches out before us—our town, our home, our future. And walking beside me is the man who saw through every mask I wore and chose to love me anyway.
This is my forever team, I think as we drive toward home. This is my championship.
The End…
but not quite goodbye.
