It’s raining everything—Reapers flags, roses, candy bars, condoms, glitter, teddy bears. Security’s already waving their arms trying to keep order, but no one’s listening. It’s chaos. It’s perfect. We’re soaked in sweat and screams and victory. Cole’s hugging Shane’s wheelchair, and someone threw a bra onto the ice and I don’t even care.
Because they’re handing us the Cup. It gleams like a star under the lights, and Coach touches it first with shaking fingers before handing it to Viktor. The barn goes quiet for just a second, waiting.
Viktor turns, finds me and without a word, he nods and gives it to me.
I scream, throat raw, lungs shredding, eyes burning. Then I turn to the cameras—press, fans, everyone watching—and I raise it. Hoist it over my head. “This is for you, baby!!!” I scream at the top of my lungs, knowing exactly who’s listening.
The fans go crazy, louder than before, deafening now. Screams rise like a tsunami, and the sound shifts—frenzied, chaotic, but focused. Targeted.
And then I hear it. “I know, pup.” The voice slices through the noise like lightning through steel.
I freeze. Time stutters. I turn so fast the ice tilts beneath me, heart slamming into my ribs, vision narrowing until it’s nothing but stars.
And there he is. Damian. One knee on the ice. Suit half-wrinkled from sitting. Face pale, lips split from biting them, IV still taped to his hand. There’s a nurse plastered to his back, looking like she’s about to faint trying to keep him upright, but he doesn’t care.
He’s holding a ring and my knees give out. The Cup slips from my hands—Cole catches it with a startled yelp just before it crashes to the ice. I hit the ground hard, helmet still on, and rip it off with shaking hands. I crawl to him, sobbing so violently my lungs can’t keep up.
“Yes—yes—yes—” I whine into his mouth, already kissing him, already grabbing him like I’ll never let go. It’s not sweet. It’s filthy. Desperate. Open-mouthed, ice-cold, messy as hell, and when I finally breathe, I taste salt and blood and everything I’ve ever wanted.
The crowd is screaming. Cameras are flashing. Someone’s sobbing—might be me, might be Cole, might be the nurse who probably deserves a raise for surviving all this.
Damian grins, eyes glassy, voice wrecked and rough.“Marry me.”
I don’t even hesitate. I launch into Damian again, nodding so hard I nearly knock both of us off balance. “Right fucking now if you want,” I pant, voice breaking into laughter and sobs.
His hand is shaking when he takes mine. He slides the ring on my finger—platinum, simple and perfect. And the second it’son, he drops the box, grips my curls, and drags me in. The kiss is deep and slow this time. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s claiming me in front of the whole goddamn world.
The crowd loses its collective mind. The jumbotron lights up with us, my hands fisted in his suit, his mouth pressed to mine, my entire soul in that kiss. My toes curl,my chest caves in, and I swear I stop breathing when he growls softly against my lips.
“I love you,” I whisper into his mouth, over and over and over, gasping between kisses. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
And Damian just kisses me harder.
Cole’s cackling somewhere behind us—high-pitched and full of unhinged joy. The crowd howls back, but I don’t care. Not about the cameras, not the Cup, not even Cole’s screeching. Just Damian. Just us.
Eventually, he pulls back—with shallow inhales, eyes filled with mischief. “Help me up, fiancé,” he murmurs, rough and smug as sin.
My whole chest implodes. I scramble to help him up, half-laughing, half-crying, the ring on my finger gleaming. He’s still not steady, but I’ve got him, arms locked around him like gravity means nothing if I’m the one holding him up.
Then Cole appears, as always. He bows theatrically, dramatically and presents the Cup to Damian with both hands. “Your holiness,” he says solemnly.
Damian rolls his eyes but takes it.
I move in behind him, arms under his, helping lift it. And the barn explodesagain—screaming,roaring,crying, the lights flashing, the anthem thundering through the speakers, confetti falling like goddamn rain.
“CONGRATULATIONS, REAPERS!” the announcer yells over the roar. “CONGRATULATIONS DAMIAN KADE AND ELIAS MERCER… YOU KNOW. FOR THE LOVE.”
I whine, face instantly red, and Damian just laughs low and wicked as he grabs my waist and drags me in closer.
The announcer’s voice booms through the chaos, deep and proud: “We would like to take this time to announce… Damian Kade has unfortunately hung up his skates.”
The whole arena groans.
My throat closes.
“Let’s sing for him.”
And then, our anthem. It starts low. The crowd picks it up. The team joins in. And suddenly, the whole goddamn arena becomes thunder.
