I collapse on top of her, careful to brace most of my weight on my forearms. We're both breathing hard, skinslick with sweat. I press my forehead against hers, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
“I love you too,” she whispers, her fingers tracing patterns on my back.
I roll to the side, taking her with me so we're facing each other. My cock slips out of her, and I immediately miss the connection.
In the distance, I hear the countdown starting on the TV we left on. Ten, nine, eight...
“New year,” I mutter against her lips. “New beginning.”
“With you,” she whispers back, her eyes shining with something that makes my chest ache. “Always with you.”
“You’re mine now, Hennessy Kingston. And I swear on everything I am that by next New Year’s, you’ll have my ring on your finger, my baby in your belly, and my last name on every fucking form.”
Epilogue
BECKHAM
The sound of blades cutting ice and pucks slamming against boards echoes through the rink, but all I hear is the exact moment she enters the building. Call it a sixth sense, or just the fact that my body is so fucking attuned to her presence that I can feel her before I see her.
“Focus up, Bettencourt! That pass was shit!” I bark, my eyes already tracking toward the entrance where Hennessy appears, waddling slightly with one hand supporting her lower back.
My pregnant wife, in all her fucking glory.
She's wearing my custom St. Charles hockey jersey, the one with “Coach King” emblazoned across the back. Her belly stretches the fabric tight, making it ride up just enough to show a sliver of skin when she moves. Nine months along, and she's never looked more beautiful, more fucking mine.
“Looking a little distracted there, Coach,” Ramsey Blackwoodsmirks as he skates up beside me, following my gaze. “Can't say I blame you.”
I grunt in response, watching as Hennessy makes her way to the front row seats. Her hand rests protectively over our daughter—yeah, we're having a girl, and I'm already wrapped around her tiny fucking finger even though she's still cooking.
“Run the power play drill,” I tell Ramsey, not taking my eyes off my wife. “Make sure Montgomery doesn't fuck up his positioning again.”
“Sure thing, Coach.” Ramsey's voice carries a knowing tone that would piss me off from anyone else. But the kid has earned the right to give me shit—he's one of the best players I've had in years.
I blow my whistle to signal a drill change, then skate to the bench where I can keep a better eye on Hennessy. She's settling in next to Reese, Ramsey's “best friend”, who's already leaning in for what looks like an intense conversation.
Those two have been thick as thieves since they met. Sometimes I think Reese knows more about my wife's pregnancy symptoms than I do, which is saying something since I've read every fucking book on the subject.
The boys run through the drill with minimal fuckups, but I'm barely paying attention. Hennessy catches my eye and smiles, a private smile that's just for me. My chest tightens in that familiar way. Part disbelief that she's actually mine, part primal satisfaction knowing I put that baby in her.
A high-pitched squeal suddenly cuts through the rink, making several players turn their heads. Hennessy is practicallybouncing in her seat, holding something in her hands while Reese grins beside her.
“What the hell was that for?” I call out, my voice echoing across the ice.
Ramsey skates over, chuckling as he watches the two women. “Knowing my girl, she probably made her a friendship bracelet or some shit. Those two get along too damn well, Coach.”
I can't take it anymore. That laugh of hers is doing things to me, and I'm not the fucking cause of it.
“Keep running the drill,” I bark at my assistant coach before skating toward the boards where Hennessy and Reese are huddled together, giggling like teenagers.
I stop at the barrier, spraying a bit of ice as I brake harder than necessary. Both women look up, Hennessy's eyes dancing with mischief while Reese tries to suppress another laugh.
“What's going on here?” I demand, my voice gruffer than intended.
Hennessy's smile widens as she holds up a tiny white onesie. My eyes narrow on the black lettering across the front: “FUTURE COACH KING” with a small embroidered whistle and a ridiculous little bow attached to the whistle.
“Surprise,” she says, her voice soft with emotion. “Reese had it custom-made. She gets a lot of stuff made for her nephews and niece.”
Something catches in my throat as I stare at the onesie. Our daughter will be here any day now, and seeing that tiny outfit makes it hit me all over again.
