And maybe that’s what I’ve been waiting for all along. Not just a place to land, but someone to build it with. The kind of certainty that makes you want to put down roots, to make it permanent.
For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t scare me.
It feels like home.
Chapter Forty-Three
CHARLOTTE
By the time I step into the arena, the world already feels louder.
Three days have disappeared since the ultrasound, and everything in me has been humming ever since—half nerves, half hope.
Now it’s Game 1 of the Final. The New York Forges landed last night, and the building’s already shifted into its own rhythm. There’s extra security at the doors, camera cables snaking through the hallways, and media risers jammed with cameras, cords, and restless crew.
The staff set out stacks of rally towels at every section entrance. In the training room, the playlist’s low, steady, something tokeep the guys loose while the equipment staff checks skate edges.
I fall into my routine: hydration board, inventory, last-minute prep for the lineup sheet. A few familiar faces pass through with nods or half-smiles, that silent language of playoff focus.
It feels good to have something steady under my hands, to focus on small, measurable things.
Because tonight, the noise, the cameras, and even the quiet truth I’m carrying feel just a little bigger than usual.
A few of the trainers give me quick nods as I move through the hall. One of the equipment guys grins, lifting his coffee in salute. “Big night,” he says, tone friendly but clipped.
“Biggest one yet,” I answer, smiling back.
No one pries or lingers. Just simple, respectful acknowledgment—the kind that says they’ve heard about Declan and me but aren’t making it weird. Everyone’s got their own pre-game ritual to guard, and I’m grateful for that quiet professionalism.
Dan stops long enough to hand me an updated treatment list. “Patel and I will cover Tremayne’s side if anything flares up,” he says, casual but reassuring.
“Thanks, Dan,” I reply, matching his calm.
He nods once and keeps walking. The smell of sharpened steel and coffee trails behind him, grounding me in the normal rhythm of game prep.
It feels good. Ordinary, even. The world might be changing around us, but here, the work still feels like home.
By the time warmups start, the steady roar of the crowd filters down the tunnel. I step into the hallway for a minute of quiet, rolling out my shoulders and stretching the tension from my neck.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Kristy.
I smile and answer. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be working?”
Her voice comes through over the noise of her own clinic’s background music. “I’m wrapping up now. Thought I’d check in. How are you holding up?”
I glance down the hall instinctively, lowering my voice. “You mean pregnant and pretending everything’s fine? Totally crushing it.”
Kristy laughs softly. “You sound lighter, though. That’s a good sign.”
“I am,” I admit, leaning against the wall. “He’s happy. Really happy. We decided to wait until after the Final to tell people. Sophie first, then our families.”
“Smart,” she says. “Let him chase the Cup without a million questions in his ear. But, Char… he’s going to be an amazing dad again. You know that, right?”
My throat tightens, but in the best way. “I do. It’s still surreal, though. Two heartbeats, Kris. Two.”
“Double trouble,” she says, teasing gently. “Better start stretching your patience muscles now.”
I laugh, quiet but real. “Already doing that at work.”
