And Tate?
He was vibrating with it. His chest felt too tight for the air he kept gulping in. This was it—his moment.
The crowd was electric tonight—every flash of light from a camera, every chant from the stands, every banner waving above the boards feeding into him like pure adrenaline. And yet, even as the excitement buzzed around him, his thoughts drifted to something more private. More permanent.
The guys had gone nuts earlier when the news slipped out. A few slaps to his helmet. A couple of ribbing jokes. But mostly? Genuine cheers from men who knew what it meant. So many of them had wives waiting in the stands, or kids learning to skate, or families they were raising in between road trips and games. Tate finally understood that balance now—the split life between the roar of the rink and the quiet moments at home.
He wanted that. He wanted every bit of it. The family dinners. The chaotic mornings before school. PTA meetings, he never imagined himself attending. He wanted all of it… with Nettie.
The announcer’s voice rose above the noise.
“And number seventy… Tate Cassidy!”
The sound crashed over him like a tidal wave, and Tate shot forward with a whoop that came from somewhere deep in his chest. His arms flung high above his head, fists pumping the air, beckoning the crowd to get even louder. He didn’t have to ask twice. The place erupted. People were on their feet, stomping, clapping, screaming his name.
His heart pounded as he carved onto the ice, the blades slicing through with a satisfying hiss. He turned a slow circle, grinning until his cheeks hurt, feeding off the crowd’s energy. His gaze snagged on the bench where Coach Côte stood, arms crossed, face unreadable as always. Tate gave him a firm thumbs-up, and in return, the man dipped his head once. A quiet nod. The kind that saidgood job, kid.
And then—darkness.
The arena lights dropped without warning, plunging everything into shadow except for the single brilliant spotlight that locked onto him. Tate froze mid-glide, breath fogging in the cool air as the announcer’s voice thundered again, this time with a grin he could hear from a mile away.
“And ladies—number seventy is now officially off the market! Tate Cassidy proposed to his girlfriend, and she accepted his offer of marriage!”
The crowd went insane. The noise rattled the rafters. It wasn’t just applause—it was a wave of sound that crashed into him, pushed through him, shook him to his very core.
The light followed as he skated toward the side, his chest swelling with pride and disbelief. Then, suddenly, another beam of white cut across the ice—and landed squarely on Nettie.
His Nettie.
She stood there in the stands, wearing his number proudly across her chest, and the sight of her hit him harder than any check he’d ever taken. Her smile was radiant, wide and unguarded, as if she belonged under that spotlight just as much as he did. She was glowing. Beaming. Beautiful in a way that made his knees feel like they might buckle, even with steel under his feet.
Tate slowed, drawing in a breath he couldn’t quite catch, and then lifted his hand. He pressed his lips to his glove before blowing a kiss across the rink. For a split second, it felt like the entire arena fell away, and it was only them—her laugh, her joy, her love washing over him from where she stood.
Yeah, she’d been right all along. Every practice, every game, every grueling road trip, every loss, every win—it had all been preparing him for this. Not just the career. Not just the glory. But the life they were about to build together.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, his voice carrying over the roar of the arena.
“I love you, Sticks!”
The fans devoured it, cheering louder, stamping their feet until the boards rattled. Some whistled. Some clapped. Others chanted his number in unison, the sound shaking the roof beams. But Tate only had eyes for the woman in his jersey, the woman who was his future.
And as the roar rose higher, Tate knew without a doubt—this was just the beginning of their very own fairy tale, their happilyever after, and it wasn’t because he made captain, or scored a goal, or even brought his team to the finals.
It was because of her.
Nettie.
CHAPTER 30
NETTIE
Six months later
Nettie’s chesttightened like a vice, the edges of her vision blurring as though she were staring through a tunnel. The room swarmed around her—voices overlapping, hands tugging, smoothing, adjusting.
Fingertips brushed her veil, tugged at the long satin train that puddled like spilled cream behind her, tugged a curl into place only for someone else to tuck it back again. Perfume and hairspray stung her nose, the scent mingling with the faint sugary sweetness of wedding cake drifting in from the reception hall.
It was too much.
