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 Blackwood smirks 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 practically bouncing 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.
“You like it?” Hennessy asks, her smile faltering slightly at my silence.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware that half my team is watching this exchange.
“Fuck, it's perfect,” I manage, reaching across the boards to touch the soft fabric. “She's going to be barking at these fuckers on the ice in no time.”
“Language, Beck,” Hennessy teases, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Little ears and all that.”
“She can't hear me yet,” I argue, though we both know that's bullshit. According to those baby books I've been reading at night, our daughter can definitely hear me.
“She absolutely can,” Reese chimes in, looking far too pleased with herself. “And I have a matching headband with a bow for when she's born.”
“Come here,” I tell Hennessy, crooking my finger at her.
She stands with some effort, her belly leading the way as she waddles to the edge of the boards. I lean over and capture her mouth in a kiss that's probably too possessive for the public, but I don't give a shit. My hand slides to cup her belly, feeling our daughter kick against my palm.
“Practice is over in twenty,” I murmur against her lips. “Wait for me in the office.”
Her eyes darken at my tone. Even nine months pregnant, she still looks at me like she wants to devour me whole.
“Yes, Coach,” she whispers back, and fuck if that doesn't make my cock jump in my pants.
I pull back, aware of the whistles and catcalls from my team. “Ten extra suicides for anyone still staring when I turn around,” I announce without looking away from my wife.
The scramble of blades against ice tells me they've all suddenly found something better to do.
“I'm stealing your wife for girl talk,” Reese announces, linking her arm through Hennessy's. “We'll be in the concession area.”
“Twenty minutes,” I remind them, my eyes fixed on Hennessy. “Not a minute more.”
She rolls her eyes but nods, carefully folding the onesie and tucking it into her purse.
I watch her walk away, slow and glowing, already the whole fucking world wrapped up in one woman. My wife. The mother of my child.
The reason I’ll never be the same.
Next year, she’ll be watching from the stands with our daughter in her arms. And every man in this rink will know exactly who they belong to.
The Kingstons always know when it’s forever.
And mine starts and ends with her.