CHAPTER fifty-eight #14
Caroline is on her feet, screaming like she might give birth right there. One hand on her pregnant belly, the other waving wildly at me. Her grin is so big it practically reaches the moon.
I raise my stick to her, tapping the blade over my heart before pointing straight at her. Then I mouth it:
I love you.
She shouts it back, huge grin stretching across her face, tears and pride shining everywhere.
And for a moment — for a second that feels eternal — everything in my life aligns into one perfect, staggering truth:
I won the biggest game of my life...
and the biggest love of my life is right there watching.
EPILOGUE TWO
CAROLINE
One Month Later…
Iwake up slowly, the way cats in cartoons do — stretching my arms above my head, pointing my toes, letting out a long, unflattering groan-yawn combination.
Mmm. Cozy. Warm. Peaceful.
I blink at the digital clock on the nightstand.
9:30 a.m.
I smile and stretch again.
My head snaps back to the clock. It's 9:30 a.m.
OH MY GOD!
I bolt upright so fast my spine probably left my body.
"I overslept—shit—oh my God—"
I fling the blankets off like they personally wronged me and sprint out of the bedroom, heart slamming against my ribs.
My son.
My poor baby.
He's probably starving.
And soaked.
And traumatized.
All because his mother decided to sleep like a corpse in a crypt.
"Caroline, you irresponsible troll, MOVE—"
I crash into the nursery door, shove it open—and freeze. He's not here.
Empty crib.
Empty room.
Empty everything.
My heart drops straight into my stomach.
"Oh my God. Where—"
Then I hear it.
Zach's voice drifting up from downstairs, except it's not his normal voice — it's his ridiculous cartoon-baby voice.
And just like that, oxygen returns to my body.
I exhale so hard I almost pass out.
My legs wobble as I take the stairs two at a time, following the sound like some kind of deranged bloodhound.
I find them in the living room.
Zach sprawls across our white U-shaped sectional like some kind of half-dressed Greek deity on paternity leave. His dark hair is a mess, his sweatpants are hanging dangerously low, and honestly?
This is rude. I'm pregnant and hormonal — he can't just sit there looking like a walking fertility test.
Our son, Sammy — one year old, chubby thighs, curls everywhere, drool machine extraordinaire — is sitting on his lap, gnawing on a toy giraffe.
Zach looks like pure devotion in human form.
Soft eyes, gentle hands, talking to our son like he's the single greatest miracle to ever exist.
"See that?" Zach says, pointing at the TV. "That's Mommy right there."
I follow his finger.
Then I see it.
My jaw drops.
My cheeks detonate.
Oh. My. God.
"ZACHARY. JAMES. WESTbrOOK."
His head whips toward me, and he grins like a wolf who's been caught stealing cookies.
"Oh hey, baby. Interesting choice of greeting for your husband, Mrs. Westbrook."
I march toward the coffee table to grab the remote but he already has it, the little menace, and he lifts it high with Olympic-level smugness.
"Why are you WATCHING THAT with Sammy?!"
He shrugs like he's innocent.
"Why not? It's my favorite show in the whole wide world. And as a responsible parent, I'm simply passing down culture."
"IT'S EMBARRASSING!"
He stands — easily, effortlessly — still cradling our son.
When I reach for the remote, he does a stupid spin move like we're in the Stanley Cup finals again.
"Turn it OFF!"
"Nope," he says cheerfully. "This is a masterpiece."
"It's HUMILIATING, Zach!"
He beams. "No, baby. It's the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me."
I flop onto the sofa in dramatic defeat, covering my face with both hands.
He laughs.
I peek between my fingers and — oh God — there it is. On our big flatscreen TV.
The After-Party Proposal.
The most mortifying, chaotic, love-drenched thing I've ever done.
There I am on-screen, walking into a packed bar where Zach's team held his Rookie of the Year celebration — the year he won the Calder Trophy after his frankly stupid rookie stats:
41 goals.
56 assists.
He was phenomenal.
He had absolutely no idea I was coming.
I told him I was stuck performing with the traveling theater company all month — which wasn't even a lie. I WAS one of the main casts and we WERE touring Florida. I just... maybe kidnapped myself from rehearsal for one night to surprise him.
On the TV, I'm standing on a tiny stage with a mic, singing Taylor Swift's "Wishlist" in a way that can only be described as... passionately off-key.
Not a single person stopped me — the whole room knew what was coming (except Zach), so they just let me have my (embarrassing) moment.
Zach groans-laughs beside me. "Here comes my favorite part."
I bury my whole face in a cushion.
On the screen, I finish butchering the final note and walk toward him—my hands shaking, my knees wobbling. And then, I kneel.
I withdraw the small blue box, its robin's egg hue unmistakably Tiffany. I crack it open to reveal twin circles of silver nestled in velvet. My voice shaking but stupidly determined:
"Okay, yes, this is wildly unconventional," I say, trying not to drop the ring box or the mic or my sanity. "But let's be honest — we've never been a conventional couple. We skipped normal a long time ago."
A ripple of laughter moves through the room.
"I love you more than every standing ovation I've ever dreamed of. More than every stage I've ever stepped on. More than the entire Taylor Swift discography."
I gesture dramatically. "And that's really saying something."
More laughter — Zach's teammates absolutely eating it up.
My voice wobbles, but I push through.
"You are my favorite person, my safest place, my biggest dream come true. And I didn't want to wait one more day to tell you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
I take a shaky breath, the kind that feels like it might turn into a sob if I blink too hard.
"So, Zach... will you marry me before I ugly cry in front of the entire Florida Panthers organization?"
The entire bar ERUPTED.
Zach, on-screen, instantly starts crying — real, wet, shiny-eye crying. And then he laughs through his tears and says:
"Baby, yes. God, yes. But—um—funny story..."
He reaches into his pocket.
Pulls out a velvet box.
And kneels too.
"I've been carrying this around for a month, waiting for the perfect moment. Turns out you beat me to it."
He opens the box to reveal a gorgeous, classic five-carat diamond that made half the bar scream.
Then he says, "Babe, I've rehearsed this speech in my head like... a hundred times. And somehow, none of those versions felt as right as this—me standing here crying after being proposed to."
He laughs, "You make everything better. Everything.
Even the parts of life that suck. You make me brave.
You make me stupid-happy. You make me want to be the kind of man who deserves you.
You make my life feel like the good part of the movie, every single day.
And I can't imagine any version of my future that doesn't have you in every frame. "
Zach lifts the ring.
"Caroline Bernadette Pennington, Sugarplum, love of my entire stupid life — will you marry me so I can brag forever that my wife proposed first?"
Back on our couch, I slap a hand over my face.
"Oh my god, turn it OFF."
Zach kisses Sammy's head, smirking.
"Nope. Our son deserves to know his parents' origin story."
"IT'S NOT AN ORIGIN STORY, IT'S PUBLIC HUMILIATION."
Zach leans down and kisses the top of my head.
"And the best yes of my damn life."
My cheeks heat.
I groan and Sammy giggles like he understands the chaos he was born into.
Zach looks at me — soft, smug, utterly in love.
"Morning, baby."
Despite myself, I smile.
"...Morning."
Zach finally hits pause — thank God — and the room goes blessedly quiet except for Sammy babbling into his toy and patting Zach's jaw like he's inspecting his father's bone structure.
I reach out.
"Give me my baby."
Zach shifts, settling beside me on the sectional, the cushion dipping under his weight. He hands Sammy over carefully, like he's passing me something holy, and my entire body softens the moment our son collapses happily into my arms.
"By the way," Zach says, brushing a thumb over Sammy's curls, "he's already eaten. And changed. And yes, before you ask — I made breakfast."
I blink at him. "You... made breakfast?"
He lifts a brow. "That tone is insulting, Mrs. Westbrook."
"No, babe, I meant you should've woken me up. I could have helped," I giggle, because honestly, what is this man doing being competent so early in the morning? "You didn't have to turn into Super Dad before breakfast."
He gives me those stupid soft eyes that make my heart fold in half.
"You needed sleep," he murmurs. "I wasn't about to drag you out of bed. You already carry so much every day. And I've been gone more than I've been home—planes, hotels, back-to-back practices—while you handle everything here without a single complaint."
His hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers finding that spot that turns my spine to warm honey. My shoulders instantly loosen.
"I just wanted you to rest. You deserve that. You deserve more than what I've been able to give you during the season. And now that it's over?" His thumb sweeps gently across my skin. "I get to make it up to you. All of it."
My throat pinches.
Every time he talks like this, like I'm the center of his universe and he's just orbiting me with devotion... my heart goes and does a full gymnastics routine.
"Zach," I murmur, brushing Sammy's soft curls off his forehead, "I don't mind doing all of it. Honestly. Taking care of the house, running after this little tornado, growing another human—none of it feels like a burden to me."
I give a small, sheepish laugh.