I’m already wiping at my eyes.
He glances down at the page, then up at me, and god—his face. That soft, wrecked smile. Like I’m the game plan. The final move. The whole strategy. Then he speaks. “I promise to coach you,” he says, “to fuck you, and follow you—through playoffs and pain, through wins and war.”
My knees buckle and my chest caves in as the crowd goes silent, no rustling, no noise—only raw, ringing stillness whilehis words settle over us. And I’m crying, right there in front of everyone, full tears tracking down my cheeks, bottom lip trembling, nose burning, my whole face crumpling as I whisper, barely holding it together, “Fuck. You bastard.”
Damian just grins.
Viktor turns toward me, expression unreadable as he says, “Captain.”
And that’s when my brain completely short-circuits. I slap at my pockets, frantic, knowing full well I never put the vows in them, but searching anyway because panic makes you stupid. There’s nothing. No paper. No plan. No backup.
Where the fuck are my vows?
I dart a look at Shane, eyes wide, begging. He shrugs—useless.
Cole, ever the menace, is already holding up a glitter pen like he’s about to start scribbling something obscene on my arm just to get me through it.
I’m spiraling hard. The kind of spiral that feels like free-fall. So I stop thinking. Stop searching. And I just blurt it—loud, raw, a mess of everything inside me that’s too big to contain. “You’re my whole world,” I say, voice cracking with the weight of it, “and if you ever leave again I’ll hunt you down and drag you back by the balls.”
There’s a beat—just a single breath of stunned silence—and then the barn explodes. Cole actually falls off his chair from laughing. Shane wheezes. Viktor looks to the sky like he wants to retire too.
Damian looks proud. So proud. He cups my face, leans in, and kisses my forehead.
Viktor turns to me, stone-faced, solemn enough to make a funeral weep. “Elias Nathaniel Mercer… for now,” he intones, and the crowd howls—laughter, cheers, whoops from the upper bleachers. He doesn’t flinch. Just waits for silence. Then he continues. “Do you take Damian Ezra Kade to be your lawfullywedded husband? To love, to honor, to obey—” his eyes flick to me, smug, “—ordisobey, let’s be honest—to kneel for, skate beside, and fight with… until death, divorce, or NHL commissioner do you part?”
I stare at him, barely breathing, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through my ribs just to get to him faster. My hands are shaking, chest heaving, and the whole world narrows until it’s just him—Damian—standing there like he already knew my answer, like he’s been waiting a lifetime to hear it.
So I say it loud and clear. “I do.”
And the second the words leave my mouth—BOOM. The jumbotron explodes in blazing red letters, bold and unforgiving: HUSBAND UNLOCKED.
Fireworks erupt from the scoreboard—actual pyrotechnics. Gold and red and sparkling. Flags wave. People are sobbing. Shane is spinning in a circle with both fists in the air.
Damian leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear, his voice molten and wrecked as he growls, “Mine.”
I almost drop again, knees buckling under the weight of him, of us, of everything that word means.
Then Viktor turns to him, stone-faced, impassive as ever, and deadpans, “Damian Ezra Kade. Do you take this menace to be your husband? To coach, to ruin, to protect? To backcheck him when necessary, and to let him win faceoffssometimes?”
Damian doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching for me, already grinning like a devil in a suit, already growling low in his throat as he answers—“Fuck yes.”
And before Viktor can finish, Damian grabs me by the collar, hauls me in, and kisses me like he’s claiming his territory on center ice.
The crowd loses it. Someone screams “GET A ROOM!” Coach is roaring with laughter. Cole is sobbing and throwing confetti.
Viktor sighs, barely audible over the chaos. “You may maul the groom.”
Cole shrieks from somewhere behind us—already halfway to possessed—“LET’S PARTY, BITCHES!!”
The Reapers anthem starts through the speakers, BOOMING, shaking the rafters. Every single fan, every teammate, every drunk uncle in a black-and-red jersey starts screaming the lyrics. People are standing on their seats. Throwing jerseys, crying and shouting.
I’m still clinging to Damian when the lights sweep over us, flooding the ice, catching on his suit, his smile, the wreckage of me in his arms. He’s panting against my cheek, hot breath skimming my skin, chest rising hard and fast beneath my hand.
Then he whispers smug as sin, smug as the devil himself, ”CaptainKade.”
I make a sound that might actually be a scream. My face combusts. Heat floods every inch of me, and I blush so hard I feel it in my fucking toes. I slap a hand to his chest, eyes wide, fucking desperate for him. “No—no no no, don’t you start that—”
But he’s already leaning in, already letting his teeth graze my jaw like he’s marking the spot. My voice cracks, trembling as I whisper, “Coach Kade…”
