“I’m scared,” I whisper.
He nods. “I know.”
“What if I mess up my vows? Or fall? Or throw up on him? Or just… I don’t know. Forget how to breathe.”
He smiles soft and fierce. “Then I’ll pick you up. Say the words for you. And remind you how.”
I stare at him. And for a second, I almost cry. Instead, I nod.
He offers his arm. I take it and we walk out into the light. As soon as I enter the tunnel, the fans explode. Full-volume, chest-rattling, playoff-level feral screaming. My name, his name, our names—echoing off the rafters. I swear someone’s already sobbing. There are signs. Someone’s waving a homemade “TIL DEATH, CAPTAIN” banner. Someone else has a poster that just says “FUCK ME, KADE” in glitter.
Cole’s already crying. Not even subtle. He’s full ugly-crying in the front row of the player bench, wiping his face with a Reapers towel and yelling, “THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND!” every five seconds.
Shane salutes me like a soldier then claps a hand on my shoulder, steady as stone, and guides me forward. The lights go out. Instant silence. Gasps in the dark.
And then one single spotlight, dead center, hits the ice. Damian’s standing in it. No crutch. No limp. Just him in a black tux, red shirt and no tie. His hair's down. One hand folded in front of him, the other resting over his heart, and staring straight at me like the whole arena could fall away and he’d still find me in the dark.
My breath catches. He’s—oh my god. “Holy fuck,” I whisper, panicking instantly. “He’s so hot. How did I pull this shit off?!”
Shane doesn’t miss a beat. “By being obsessed,” he murmurs, smirking.
I wheeze. Actually wheeze. I’m suddenly aware of every single thing wrong with me. My suit is tight in weird places. My tie’s crooked. My curls are frizzing from the humidity. My mouth’s dry. My hands are shaking. I smell like nerves.
But Damian’s smiling now. Just a little. Just for me. And fuck me if I don’t feel like the most seen, wanted, claimed man on earth.
I step onto the ice, skates slicing clean. Shane guides me forward, steady and slow. The crowd fades. The lights stay low. The arena holds its breath and then I’m there, right in front of him. And he looks at me like I’m already his.
Damian smiles down at me, soft and slow. His hand lifts and brushes back a curl from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. He does it deliberately. Tender. Like he knows exactly what it does to me.
I go crimson instantly. My whole face burns, my throat locks, and I make a noise—something between a hiccup and a broken whimper—and he just smirks. “Hi, pup,” he whispers, low enough that it feels like a secret. Like a kiss.
I whimper. Out loud.
Shane’s snorting beside me. Cole’s screeching “I knew he’d break first.” But none of it touches me. None of it matters.
It’s just him. Damian Kade. Standing steady. Tux sharp. Eyes soft. Looking at me like I’m holy.
And then Viktor clears his throat. It booms through the mic—standing between us in a black suit that somehow looks like it came straight from an underground auction for assassin clergy.
The barn stills.
Viktor lifts his gaze slowly, looks at the crowd then at us, then the ceiling like he’s praying for patience. And in full, solemn Petrov mode, he intones—“We are gathered here today because these two idiots refuse to be separated even by death, violence, or playoff travel schedules.”
Someone in the crowd yells “GO REAPERS!”
I choke on a laugh. Damian chuckles, eyes flicking to Viktor like he might actually kiss him out of sheer admiration. But Viktor isn’t done. He lifts one hand. “They have been through blood,” he says, steady, “through bone, through heartbreak and hail and overtime and press conferences that made me want to walk into traffic.”
Damian wheezes. I bite my fist. Viktor glares at both of us, then looks to the crowd. “And still. They stand. They choose each other. Again. Now. Always.”
I swear someone sobs. Shane salutes again. Viktor nods once, approvingly, and says, “Let’s get this over with before one of them faints.”
He turns toward Damian. “Coach,” he says simply. And Damian reaches slowly into the breast pocket of his tux. He pulls out a folded scrap of paper. Yellowed, creased and very familiar.
The crowd leans in. I squint. That’s—wait. That’s a playbook page.
Viktor arches a brow. “Really?”
“It’s sentimental,” Damian mutters, unfolding it carefully.
