I scan the area. Leo Stone, center, has a calm expression and is arrogant in a way he is allowed to be, given who he is as a player. Bass Giulietti, first line left wing, Coach D’s husband, and one of the deadliest shooters in the league. Evan Smith, right wing, all speed, all bite. I'm on left defense, inside coiled like a wire ready to snap. Faulker on right defense, steady as stone. Moretti is in goal, leaning on his stick like he is half asleep, even though he sees everything.
We gather in a loose half circle.
Leo smirks. “Ready to piss off New York.”
Bass grins harder. “Born ready.”
Evan rolls his shoulders. “Let them talk shit. I want them noisy.”
Faulker cracks his knuckles. “I want them scared.”
I say nothing. I do not need to.
Chapter 3
Take One
Sofie
The Fairfax Mediabox smells like champagne, expensive cologne, and strategy. My favorite trifecta.
Lydia’s posture perfect, phone already angled like she was born knowing her best side. Maya is calm in that way that tells you she’s already ten steps ahead and doesn’t need to announce it. Across from us, Deacon’s parents sit close together, Antonio with his hands folded like he’s trying not to fidget, Gianna glowing like this entire situation is her personal Hallmark movie.
And honestly? Same, Gianna. Same.
They all know. Not just about the proposal, but about everything underneath it. The custody concerns. Kyle’s looming legal circus. The very deliberate reason this is moving fast, faster than polite society prefers. We are not rushing because we’re reckless. We’re rushing because timing is leverage, optics are power, and nothing makes a lawyer panic like airtight love wrapped in impeccable public sentiment.
They’ve seen it with their own eyes now. Deacon with Claudia. Claudia with Deacon. Not staged, not coached. The quiet touches. The way his attention tracks her without effort. The way she softens around him without losing herself. It’s real, and that’s the part Kyle’s team can’t manufacture or dismantle.
Before they even knew I’d mentioned Christmas Eve, Gianna simply announced that if we were doing this, then obviously it should be Christmas Eve, because they’re already in the States for the holidays and also because love deserves drama, but the good kind. Festive drama. Tulle-and-candlelight drama.
We’ve already taken the initial photos before heading up here with Deacon pregame. No tension visible. No cracks. Lydia and Maya between Deacon and Gianna in one shot. Antonio’s hand on Deacon’s shoulder in another, subtle but loaded. Gianna and Claudia, and then all of them, with Paul Bronski holding Savannah, who was beaming at him. Family. Support. Stability.
Kyle’s lawyers are going to hate this set.
Clean. Unified. Fairfax Media box, everyone dressed impeccably but not try-hard. Wealth whispers, confidence hums. I glance down at the ice, lights blazing, crowd roaring, and feel that familiar click in my chest. The one that says the narrative is locking into place. Public affection, private certainty. A timeline that looks organic but is razor sharp.
I lift my glass, not to toast, just to breathe. This is the part I’m good at. The part where the world sees exactly what we want it to see.
And this time, for once, the truth makes it even better.
Claudia’s eyes sweep my face. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” I say. “How are you?”
“His parents are great, taking this better than I imagine I would. Lydia and Maya are?—"
“Perfect,” I smile. “They are amazing. Let’s keep that going. Tonight is about three things: a hot couple, a happy baby, and afuture family. No mention of custody, no mention of biological fathers, no hint that anyone in the universe has ever made a bad decision.”
Noelle whistles. “That’s a tall order for this crew.”
“Watch me,” I say.
Down on the ice, it’s almost time for puck drop when my phone vibrates.
Matteo:
Crew van accident. Minor injuries, but they’re in the ER for evaluation. We’ve got arena feed, but our shooters won’t make it.
