“Oh, I will,” Cole grins. “I’m doing the speech, Daddy Kade.”
Damian visibly flinches. “Strike two,” he says. Then he groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. Since we’re doing this…” He glances across the table at Viktor, who’s chewing stoically through a chocolate croissant. “Petrov… officiate?”
Viktor looks up. Doesn’t blink. “Da.”
“That’s it?” Cole huffs. “Da? That’s your whole answer? No speech? No vows? No tearful moment of joy?”
Viktor shrugs. “I can fake emotion if required.”
“How romantic,” Cole deadpans, sipping from a rainbow-strawed drink.
But then I turn toward him, twisting in my seat so I’m fully facing his dramatic ass, “Hollywood…”
Cole blinks. “Yes, curls?”
I grin. “Will you be my best man?”
Cole chokes. Literally chokes on his drink. Slams it down, eyes huge, mouth open, and then melts. Actually melts in the seat, clutching his chest like I just proposed to him. “Oh my GOD—yes. Yes, absolutely. Fuck yes. I’m gonna cry. You bitch,” he sniffles, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with a napkin. “I already have a suit. I already have several speeches prepared. One with flashcards. One in iambic pentameter. One where I sing.”
“None of those,” Damian warns, sipping his coffee.
“Ignore him, baby, it’s your day,” Cole says to me, beaming.
“My day,” I echo, glowing now, even as Damian mutters “our day” under his breath.
“Wait, who’s walking you down the aisle?” Shane asks, leaning forward.
Everyone goes quiet, then Tyler blurts, “Coach?”
Coach—who just walked in with a fresh espresso—freezes mid-step. “The hell I am.”
My throat tightens. “Shane?” I ask, heart beating louder than I want to admit.
Shane freezes mid-sip of his bright blue monstrosity and blinks at me as the table falls silent, even Cole shutting up, and he just stares—long and hard—before slowly setting his cup down, crossing himself, and nodding once, solid, saying nothingas he grins and bangs the table twice in some holy hockey vow ritual none of us understand but all of us feel.
“He’s gonna cry before you,” Cole whispers, nudging me.
“Shut up,” I murmur, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
I turn toward Damian, all soft grin and glittering eyes, and ask, “What color suits are we wearing?”
Damian doesn’t even blink. Smirks slow and wicked. “Black and red, baby. You know that.”
Reapers colors. Our colors.
Cole practically squeals. “You’re wearing the team colors?? That’s iconic. Oh my God, the photos—the photos, Elias, do you understand what this means?”
“We are branding our love,” I whisper dramatically, eyes wide.
Shane thumps his fist on the table. “This is a covenant.”
Tyler mumbles something about black suits making him look pale and Cole throws a piece of croissant at his head. “Shut up, you’ll wear eyeliner.”
I’m still watching Damian. He’s watching me right back. “I love you,” I murmur across the table.
He smirks, leaning in. “I know.”
But then Coach—with his eternal timing and his graveyard tone—leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and says quietly, “Elias. What about your parents?”
