“Riley,” I say, and her name in my mouth is a history book that ends well. “I promise I’ll never choose the game over you again. Not the cameras, not the contract, not the version of me that thinks carrying everything is the same as loving well. If the choice ever shows up, I sit. I stay. I go where you go.” I swallow, eyes bright. “I promise to chase one stat for life: love, above replacement.”
Someone—Moose, traitor—mutters a soft, “Damn,” that turns into a cough.
I unfold a crinkled napkin from my pocket. “I promise to be late to practice if you need sleep, to learn how to braid, to never again say I’m babysitting my own kid. I promise to keep our bubble intact and make it bigger when we invite people in.” I look straight at her. “And I promise to love every version of you, not just the one the league recognizes.”
Coach exhales like he just killed a penalty. “Rings,” he says, voice rough.
Moose shuffles forward, palms open. The metal is cool against my glove-warm fingers. The band slides home on Riley’s hand like it’s been measuring her all along. She does the same for me, her thumb pressing over the ring a second longer than necessary—as if heat could set vows like glue.
“By the power vested in absolutely no league office,” Coach manages, grinning through wet eyes, “kiss your person.”
We do—soft and sure. The twinkle lights blur as the cheer comes like surf—teammates unapologetically sniffing, Sophie whooping, my mother sobbing into Julia’s handkerchief while Julia pretends hers is for dust. The compressors keep humming. The ice holds. So do we.
The music starts as a whisper—soft strings from the same speakers that used to blare fight songs. Now it’s something slower, sweeter, the kind of melody that invites you to breathe in unison. Jason’s hand slips into mine, palm warm and certain, the other hovering at my waist as if remembering I’m still healing—still his equal in all of it.
Riley
I can feel the texture of the ice through the soles of my skates—the faint hum under the thin blades that saystrust your balance.My nerves flicker, then settle when he tugs me gently closer. The crowd melts into the edges of my vision. It’s just us now—Jason, me, and the sound of our breaths syncing up.
“Ready to embarrass ourselves?” he murmurs, smiling against my temple.
“Absolutely,” I whisper back.
He takes a hesitant step. I follow. We wobble—me first, then him—and both of us start laughing, because of course the perfect first dance wasn’t going to be smooth. His hand tightens at my waist; my fingers clutch his lapel. When I meet his eyes, everything stills. The rink, the lights, the cold air—everything folds down to the warmth between us.
Jason
She leans in just enough for me to catch her scent—soft and citrus, same shampoo as the first night I kissed her in the dark. My chest tightens. I’ve played in championship arenas and heard the roar of twenty thousand people, but nothing feels louder—or more right—than her quiet laugh against my throat.
We find the rhythm, slow and careful, her skates gliding backward as mine guide forward. I’m supposed to lead, but it’s Riley who steers us. Always has been. Every shift, every tiny adjustment—steady, certain, fearless.
“You’re good at this,” I say, before I drown in the way she looks at me.
“Trainer’s precision,” she teases. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Her forehead rests against mine, and for a heartbeat it’s just the sound of the blade edges carving half-moons in the ice. My heart does the same thing.
Riley
He stumbles on the next turn, nerves kicking in, and I catch him by his lapel before he can apologize. “Stop thinking,” I whisper. “Just feel it.”
So he does. We sway in slow, small circles until the music swells and our friends cheer like surf against the boards. Sophie’s shout breaks through—“You two are disgusting!”—and Moose answers with a wolf whistle that sets everyone off.
I laugh into Jason’s shoulder, tears slipping down before I notice. He kisses the crown of my head, and the world settles there—between that kiss and the heartbeat underneath it.
Our skates glide to a stop right where our vows began. The lights blink once, then steady, as if the rink itself approves. When the music fades, the cheer breaks over us again—a roar we’ll never need to earn.
The toasts blur warm around us—Sophie weaponizing sentiment, Moose crying openly into a napkin he insists is for his nose, Coach keeping his speech under thirty seconds and still making half the room weep. Someone clinks a glass with a skate lace tip, which feels illegal and perfect. Laughter hangs in the rafters like banners.
We slip away during the cake chaos, past the photo booth Sophie swore she wasn’t setting up (she was), through the Zamboni bay where the air smells faintly of oil and clean ice. The compressors hum softer here, like a big animal asleep. Jason walks half a step behind me, fingers trailing at my waist—the kind of touch that saysI’m here, not steering.
In the shadow of the tunnel, the rink lights throw a long, pale stripe across the concrete. I can still hear the party: teammatesarguing over the playlist, my mother telling Julia to sit down for once, a baby’s sigh that belongs to us even when someone else is holding them. It’s all close enough to touch, far enough to breathe.
“Hi,” Jason says, because he’s the kind of man who greets moments. He tucks a stray curl behind my ear; his hands smell like cake and tape.
“Hi,” I answer, leaning back into him until the wall and his chest make a bracket.
For a second, we don’t speak. The quiet isn’t empty—it’s full of what we already promised in front of everyone. But some vows belong only to us.
