The table stills. So do I. Every molecule in my chest tightens until my ribs creak under the weight. I don’t look at him. I don’t look at anyone. I just breathe in once, “Have you seen them at any of our games, Coach?”
His mouth presses into a thin line.
Damian’s hand slides over to my thigh beneath the table. Squeezes once firm, grounding. Like a reminder. LikeI’m here. Say it.
So I do. “After my brother died,” I say, staring at the table, voice calm in that awful, numb kind of way, “our relationshipwent down the drain. They started blaming me for it. Indirectly at first. Then not so much.”
The silence is thick now. Stupid. Loud. I want to tear through it with my hands. “So, no,” I finish. “They’re not coming.”
“Good,” Viktor grunts.
“Fuck them,” Shane mutters.
Cole makes a noise like he just bit into something sour and emotional. “You’ve got us,” he says, his hand finding mine across the table. “You’ve always had us. And if they show up at the wedding, I will personally body-check them into the catering table.”
That makes me snort. A little. I finally look up, and Damian is staring at me like I hung the damn moon. “I’m proud of you,” he says.
I lean into him enough to feel the tremor in my own hands quiet. “I’m okay,” I whisper.
Damian’s finally walking without the crutch.
Still limping. Still stiff in the mornings. Still cursing every time the stairs squeak under his weight, but walking. Breathing next to me in the dark when I wake up gasping from dreams I’ll never admit to. He’s here. Mine. Still a little broken, but not gone.
Today, I marry him. On our ice.
The arena is packed. I mean packed. Sold out like a playoff game. Like someone screamed FREE HOCKEY and the entire city showed up to see if I’d trip over my own skates on the way down the aisle. There are banners. Fucking signs. Someone’s blasting “Here Comes the Bride” over the speakers with bass so heavy it makes the windows tremble.
No idea who told them. Not me. Not Damian. Not even Cole, I think—though honestly, it wouldn’t shock me if he live-streamed the invite in his sleep.
Doesn’t matter now. Because I’m in one of the gym rooms under the arena, in a black and red suit with my skates already laced, and I’m spiraling.
I’m pacing. Tugging at my sleeves. Yanking my tie so loose it’s a noose at this point. My curls are a mess. My mouth’s dry. My heart’s hammering. And my best man is absolutely no help.
Cole lounges on the weight bench, sipping something neon out of a protein shaker like he’s not wearing three thousand dollars worth of silk and sin. He’s got his jacket slung over his shoulder and his Reapers cufflinks crooked, and he looks way too smug for someone whose main job today is keeping me from bolting.
“You know,” he says, tipping his head back with a grin, “for someone who tackled their husband on center ice in front of twenty thousand people, you’re surprisingly jittery.”
I glare. “That was different.”
“Oh? How?” He twirls the shaker bottle. “Because your dick was hard that time?”
“Because I didn’t have to say vows, Cole,” I hiss, running a hand down my face. “Because I didn’t have to walk out there in skates and a tux and not fall on my ass in front of every single Reapers fan and maybe Jesus himself.”
Cole squints. “Jesus is not a Reapers fan, babe.”
I shoot him a look.
He shrugs. “Satan, maybe.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I groan and lean against the wall, dragging my palms down the front of my suit jacket like that’ll stop the shaking. My stomach’s in knots. My legs are trembling. I feel like I’m about to go into Game 7 overtime alone, naked, and high on cold meds.
A knock on the door—soft, three steady beats—and then Shane pokes his head in. He’s in a dark suit, a red tie, and his dress shoes look suspiciously like his backup goalie skates dyed black. His hair’s slicked back, eyes glassy, and he’s holding something in his hands. “You ready?” he asks, quiet.
I don’t answer. Can’t. My throat closes up, but Shane walks in anyway. He reaches for my boutonniere—black carnation, red thistle—and pins it to my lapel with hands that only shake a little. Then he looks me in the eye. “You look good, Cap,” he murmurs.
