Nettie swallowed hard, fingers tightening around her bouquet until the stems creaked. She nodded, though her body still trembled.
“My palms are sweaty.”
“Just don’t puke, cry, or run away,” Shannon deadpanned.
A startled laugh escaped Nettie. “I won’t.”
A knock cut through the tension, firm and grounding. Coach Côte’s familiar face appeared around the door, his expression gruff but his eyes kind. “Ladies, are you ready?”
His gaze settled on Nettie. “Nettie?”
“Yes.” She forced the word out, swallowing the lump in her throat as she rose, the gown whispering against the floor. “Let’s do this.”
For a heartbeat, she hesitated in front of the mirror. The reflection staring back was a stranger—a bride painted in ivory and lace, trembling on the edge of everything she’d ever wanted. Anxiety pressed close, but there was no turning back now. No second chances.
Her day,theirday, had arrived.
“Here we go,” she whispered, tucking her hand into Coach Côte’s waiting arm. His answering smile was warm, reassuring.
Nettie drew in a shaky breath. She was marrying Tate Cassidy—the man she’d loved in every season of her life. And she was about to step into a wedding-to-end-all-weddings: themed, playful, dazzling, and wildly different.
Exactly like Tate.
Exactly like their relationship.
“Let’s do this.”
Nettie waited by the door to the sanctuary, her back pressed against the polished wood, hands tightening around her bouquet as if it were her lifeline. Her heart thudded so loudly in her chest that she was certain Coach Côte standing beside her could hear it.
Beyond the door, the ceremony had already begun—one by one, her bridesmaids stepped through on trembling legs, their satin dresses rustling softly as they linked arms with Tate’s groomsmen. Each pair glided into the candlelit sanctuary, down the aisle, preparing the way for what everyone had come to see. For her. For them.
The piano played something soft and reverent at first, each note drifting like a prayer through the vaulted ceiling beams. It was beautiful, serene… almost too serene for what they had planned. Then, as if on cue, the familiar, unmistakable notes of theImperial MarchfromStar Warsthundered through the sanctuary, shaking the rafters.
“That’s our cue,” Coach Côte chuckled, his gravelly voice breaking the tension. Nettie let out the breath she’d been holding, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing aloud.
Trust Tate to make sure their wedding wasn’t ordinary. Trustthemto make certain that this moment wasn’t just about tradition, but about who they were together. Her pulse raced, but she stepped into her spot with practiced precision, her heels whispering against the tile. The sanctuary lights dimmed until the space was cloaked in shadows, just as they’d planned.
She had insisted on an evening ceremony, knowing that the darkness and candlelight would lend everything a hushed magic. Tonight wasn’t about perfection—it was aboutthem: about quirks, laughter, and all the nerdy, whimsical things that had bonded them from the beginning, no matter how much they fought against it.
A hush rippled through the crowd as every guest rose to their feet. Two beams of light pierced the darkness—one striking the aisle at the front, illuminating Tate. The glow spilled over his dark head, outlining his broad shoulders, making him look almost formidable, as though he belonged to another world. Toanyone else, that presence might have seemed intimidating. But to her? It was safety. It was home.
The second beam found her.
Nettie inhaled sharply as warmth spilled over her. Her hair was pinned in a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, a veil tumbling over her shoulders like a whisper of moonlight. The dress hugged her frame in clean, elegant lines—white silk fitted to her waist before flowing into a narrow skirt that swept behind her with each tentative step. She’d wanted something timeless, something cinematic, something that could have been plucked straight from one of the films they’d spent nights binge-watching together.
Her hand trembled slightly as she found the tiny switch embedded in the stems of her bouquet. With a subtle press, it flared to life—soft, golden-yellow light blooming against the petals, spilling upward across her veil, her cheekbones, her smile.
Across the aisle, Tate’s lips parted into a grin, wide and unapologetic. His eyes gleamed with mischief, pride, and love all tangled into one expression. Just as they’d rehearsed, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
At once, his groomsmen responded in unison, each reaching into their lapel pocket. A flick, a click—then one by one, glowsticks lit up, casting an otherworldly red glow against their tuxedos. The light matched perfectly with their bow ties and cummerbunds, their grins wide as the crowd rippled with gasps and muffled laughter.
Him versus her.
Light versus dark.
Power versus control – melting, changing, combining, and bringing out the best of each other because of their love. The sanctuary, usually solemn and still, had transformed into a stage for their story—a love that thrived on playfulness, creativity, anda refusal to take themselves too seriously despite the challenges they might have faced over the years.
TheImperial Marchfaded, and with it came a swell of something softer, more tender—Han and Leia’s theme fromStar Wars.The melody wrapped around Nettie like a promise, like the very first time Tate had looked at her with that half-smile and said,You’re mine, Sticks.
