Ishow up to the reception a little late.
No one says anything because this isn’t the type of wedding reception where people care about that. There’s no seating plan or head table, no speeches being timed down to the second. No tuxedos or signature cocktails or photographers trying to wrangle toddlers back into floral crowns.
Just a courtyard draped in string lights, some outdoor space heaters to stave off the cold, and a giant grazing platter filling a huge table that’s already half picked over by greedy hands. The hum of the guests feels warm, filled with the kind of soft background music that you only hear in the spaces between laughter.
Charlie didn’t want a big wedding, and Jake would’ve married her in a gas station bathroom if it made her happy. So here they are—married in the city hall during the Olympic break, with a low-key private party for their reception in one of their favorite bars.
I take the last two steps with a little more weight on my good leg, keeping my stride balanced. I’m still sore from the regular physio, but the pain’s turned into more of a hum now. Something I can manage. Which is good, because I’m back in skates, testing out how far I can push my knee before the season recommences.
There’s already a decent number of people out back, even though there are a few key people missing. Eli should be loud somewhere near the center, with Tamara pretending she’s not emotional while absolutely being emotional. Instead, they’re halfway across the world with Team Canada. A handful of Storm guys are missing too, swallowed up by Olympic schedules and time zones that don’t care about weddings.
I should be one of them.
Logan claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Beer?”
“Yeah.”
He slides one across the bar a second later, already halfway back to Lulu, who’s laughing at something Charlie’s mom has said. Lulu catches my eye and grins.
“You look suspiciously social tonight, Hutchy.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’ve got a strict one-outing-per-quarter rule.”
She laughs and leans back into Logan, whose arms have settled around her waist, his lips pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
Viktor is planted at the bar beside me, nursing his drink.
“You are late,” he says.
I grunt. “Wasn’t aware there was a schedule.”
“There isn’t.” He takes a slow sip. “But if there was, you would still be late.”
I let the corners of my mouth twitch. “You been here long?”
“Long enough to know the meatballs are terrible and the old woman in the green dress tried to talk to me about essential oils for forty-five minutes.”
I glance toward the grazing table. “Is she still alive?”
“Barely.”
We stand there for a few beats, watching Lulu drag Logan toward the makeshift dance floor, a string of fairy lights swaying above them. Her dress twirls when she spins, then she leans in to say something that makes him smile.
Love. It suits him.
Viktor’s watching them, too. “He looks less tense.”
“He is,” I reply. “Took him long enough.”
I scan the room again. People stand where they land—leaning against the bar, perched on stools, claiming bits of space by the exposed brickwork.
Viktor tips his bottle toward the room. “Marriage,” he says. “It is a strange commitment.”
“Statistically,” I agree, “not a great investment.”
“Everyone’s in love,” he says, watching as Logan dips Lulu on the dance floor.
“Yeah.” I take a sip of my drink. “You think it’s contagious?”
