I smile like a lunatic every time I see it. I’ve almost crashed Damian’s car twice because of it. Three times, if we count last week when Shane graffitied “HE SAID YES” over it and Coach spit out his coffee laughing.
Right now, I’m in the driver’s seat. Damian's in the passenger seat. Brooding. “I told you to slow down on corners,” he grumbles, shifting slightly with a wince. “You’re driving like you’re trying to finish your own therapy arc.”
“You told me not to crash your car,” I chirp, eyes still on the road. “I haven’t crashed it yet.”
“Yet.” His voice is flat. His grip on the door handle is a little dramatic.
“You’re a backseat driver in the front seat,” I mutter.
“You’re driving my legacy, pup. This car has seen shit.”
I glance over at him—his crutch wedged between the seats, his stupid perfect face scowling out the window.
It’s mid-summer, off-season, and the boys are waiting at that ridiculous hipster café Cole won’t shut up about. Shane’s already claimed three tables. Mats has probably hit on every barista. Tyler better not have ordered without me.
And Damian? Well, Damian’s bitchy because he still can’t fuck me properly yet. “I miss you,” he muttered last night while I was grinding down on him, soft and slow.
I nearly cried.
He’s doing better though. Moving easier. Using the crutch less. Scowling more, which, honestly, is a great sign.
We roll up to the café and I park like a saint—perfect, slow, no curb-hitting, no tire-screeching. Damian glares at me anyway.
I grin. “See? Still alive.”
“For now.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Try not to murder me before caffeine.”
He snorts. “No promises.”
We step out and I help him out of the car, even though he doesn’t need it. He lets me anyway. And when we walk in, Reapers flags still fluttering in the windows, Cup posters still hanging, Cole screams from across the café. “THE HUSBANDS HAVE ARRIVED!”
Everyone turns. And I swear to God, there it is again. That kiss. On the damn tip jar.
We haven’t even sat down yet. Not fully. I’ve barely pulled Damian’s chair out, barely gotten his crutch settled against the table leg, barely slid into my seat next to him when—“Time to wedding plan, bitches!” Cole crows loud enough to shake the whipped cream off someone’s frappe.
Viktor groans. “No.”
Damian exhales so sharp it sounds like he’s considering homicide. “Cole.”
“What? You’re married already, technically. Now we need a party! A reception! A theme! Color schemes! Matching suits—oh my God, matching skates! We could skate down the aisle—”
“I’m not skating anywhere in a tux,” Damian mutters, reaching for the coffee I placed in front of him.
“You wouldn’t have to!” Cole says, unhinged and glowing. “Elias would skate to you! Picture it! The arena dark—just a spotlight—and Elias appears in full wedding drag, veil over his helmet, bouquet tucked in his elbow pad, skating down center ice to Here Comes the Bride—”
“I swear to God, Cole,” I say, already laughing into my drink.
“Can we not traumatize the entire public with a wedding-on-ice?” Viktor says, deadpan. “They’ve seen enough.”
Cole pouts. “You’re all boring.”
“No, you’re just possessed,” Damian mutters.
“By vision, sir.” Cole flutters his lashes.
Damian levels him with the calmest, most bone-dry glare I’ve ever seen. “You will not speak at the wedding.”
