Happily Ever After
Dual
Riley
Morning spills across the rink in a slow gold sheet, catching on the fresh-cut ice until the whole surface gleams like a held breath. The compressors hum under the boards—steady, church-organ low. Coffee steam ghosts from paper cups on the dasher, and the sweet, familiar squeak of tape winds through the air like a prayer someone forgot the words to but kept humming anyway.
My skates rasp softly on the rubber mat as I step out from the tunnel. The air has that clean sting that lifts every hair on my arms. Twinkle lights float above the blue lines in garlands we measured with trainer precision—exact spans, not one bulb more—but they look like stars that got talked into coming inside.
Nerves flicker behind my ribs—little goalie butterflies that think they’re helping. I palm them like pucks and stack them neatly in the mental corner I reserve for noise.
Then I see him.
Center ice. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loose. Jason sways in place like he’s keeping time for a very small band. Oliver sleeps on his shoulder, mouth open in the universal baby “o,” fist latched to his collar like a climber with no intention of coming down. He’s humming—badly—to the lullaby leaking from his phone, and every rough edge in me decides to sand itself.
Coach stands at the far blue line pretending not to wipe his eyes. Moose argues with Sophie about the correct number of fairy lights per section—Sophie wins by existing. Julia is smiling. It looks like it hurts a little, and also like she doesn’t mind.
Jason turns, catches me, and something warm takes the elevator in my chest all the way to my throat. He looks at me the way he did in the hallway with the ring, in the ER when the world remembered how to be kind—like he’s choosing again, out loud.
“Hey,” he says, quiet under the compressors. The word carries.
“Skates okay?”
“Laced like a professional did it,” I say, even though my hands shook and Sophie had to flick my wrist and remind me,breathe, bride.I glide the last few steps and stop in front of him, toe pick kissing the ice. Oliver’s warm weight radiates through his shirt when I touch their back. He makes that tiny contented noise that rearranged my definition of victory.
“You ready?” he asks—not testing me, just offering a place to put the truth.
I look around: the twinkle-lit crease where we’ll stand; the rings in Moose’s custodian-of-chaos pocket; the teammates pretending not to be soft; the rows of chairs covering the rink ads because some sponsorships don’t belong in this picture. My family in the second row—my mother already dealing tissues like cards. The tunnel that carried us into battles now echoing with something gentler.
“Yeah,” I say, surprised by how steady the word is. “I’m ready.”
He leans in, forehead to mine. Coffee, linen, clean rink air. Oliver sighs. Somewhere, a skate blade nicks the ice and sings quick and bright.
“Let’s make this a home,” I whisper, because vows aren’t just for microphones.
“Already are,” he murmurs, and when he smiles, the twinkle lights show off.
The butterflies in my chest recalibrate. They remember this is our rink, our morning, our yes. I take Oliver from his shoulder while Jason straightens his tie, looking like a man who finally learned which rules feel like care. I’m still me—trainer’s spine, soft edges earned, skates sharp.
The organ-hum holds, and I step toward center ice.
Center ice feels like a clean page. The twinkle lights make a soft constellation above us; the cut lines under our skates glow like they were polished for this exact sentence. Coach clears his throat and turns officiant with the same energy he uses for line changes—efficient, secretly sentimental. Sophie stands beside him, holding a bouquet she definitely bullied out of a grocery store but somehow makes look like a magazine spread. Moose pats his chest, guardian of the glitter he’s not allowed to deploy.
Jason’s hand finds mine—warm, callused, steady. Oliver naps three rows back with my mother’s scarf tucked around their legs like a blessing.
Coach nods. “Riley?”
My voice wants to wobble; I let it. “Jason,” I say, and his name makes everything else easy. “I promise to keep choosing—me, and you—both, every day. Not one at the expense of the other. I promise to build a home that isn’t quiet about joy, that makes room for naps and loud laughter and boundaries taped where everyone can see them. I promise to ask for help before I’m drowning, to apologize without a footnote, and to love you in public without giving the public anything that belongs to us.”
A sound ripples the chairs—someone sniffs and doesn’t hide it. Coach stares up at the ceiling with the intensity of a man pretending twinkle lights require supervision.
I pull a napkin from my pocket—the one we wrote on in the hospital, wrinkles smoothed with my thumb. “I promise pancakes on Sundays,” I add, because vows can be carbohydrates. “And to keep cheering for you to skate home as hard as you skate out.”
Jason’s smile is the exact shape of relief. He squeezes once—got it—and the light picks a favorite part of his hair to shine on.
Jason
I clear my throat. For one second, I’m the player who used to tuck his chin against a visor like it could hide him. Then I look at her—and the rink shrinks to just us and the quiet.
