Chapter 25
The kiss is everywhere. Center ice. Big screen. Billboard. Fucking bus stop. I even saw it on a coffee sleeve once.
And not just any kiss. The kiss. The one where I dropped the goddamn Stanley Cup like a hot potato because my man was down on one knee with a ring. And the second I realized what was happening, I tackled him. On ice. In full gear. Kissed him like the cameras didn’t exist.
Apparently, it was photogenic. Now it’s plastered across all of Ravensburg like a wedding invite from hell. And I’m not even mad. It was the best kiss of my life. Still is.
I smile like a lunatic every time I see it. I’ve almost crashed Damian’s car twice because of it. Three times, if we count last week when Shane graffitied “HE SAID YES” over it and Coach spit out his coffee laughing.
Right now, I’m in the driver’s seat. Damian's in the passenger seat. Brooding. “I told you to slow down on corners,” he grumbles, shifting slightly with a wince. “You’re driving like you’re trying to finish your own therapy arc.”
“You told me not to crash your car,” I chirp, eyes still on the road. “I haven’t crashed it yet.”
“Yet.” His voice is flat. His grip on the door handle is a little dramatic.
“You’re a backseat driver in the front seat,” I mutter.
“You’re driving my legacy, pup. This car has seen shit.”
I glance over at him—his crutch wedged between the seats, his stupid perfect face scowling out the window.
It’s mid-summer, off-season, and the boys are waiting at that ridiculous hipster café Cole won’t shut up about. Shane’s already claimed three tables. Mats has probably hit on every barista. Tyler better not have ordered without me.
And Damian? Well, Damian’s bitchy because he still can’t fuck me properly yet. “I miss you,” he muttered last night while I was grinding down on him, soft and slow.
I nearly cried.
He’s doing better though. Moving easier. Using the crutch less. Scowling more, which, honestly, is a great sign.
We roll up to the café and I park like a saint—perfect, slow, no curb-hitting, no tire-screeching. Damian glares at me anyway.
I grin. “See? Still alive.”
“For now.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Try not to murder me before caffeine.”
He snorts. “No promises.”
We step out and I help him out of the car, even though he doesn’t need it. He lets me anyway. And when we walk in, Reapers flags still fluttering in the windows, Cup posters still hanging, Cole screams from across the café. “THE HUSBANDS HAVE ARRIVED!”
Everyone turns. And I swear to God, there it is again. That kiss. On the damn tip jar.
We haven’t even sat down yet. Not fully. I’ve barely pulled Damian’s chair out, barely gotten his crutch settled against the table leg, barely slid into my seat next to him when—“Time to wedding plan, bitches!” Cole crows loud enough to shake the whipped cream off someone’s frappe.
Viktor groans. “No.”
Damian exhales so sharp it sounds like he’s considering homicide. “Cole.”
“What? You’re married already, technically. Now we need a party! A reception! A theme! Color schemes! Matching suits—oh my God, matching skates! We could skate down the aisle—”
“I’m not skating anywhere in a tux,” Damian mutters, reaching for the coffee I placed in front of him.
“You wouldn’t have to!” Cole says, unhinged and glowing. “Elias would skate to you! Picture it! The arena dark—just a spotlight—and Elias appears in full wedding drag, veil over his helmet, bouquet tucked in his elbow pad, skating down center ice to Here Comes the Bride—”
“I swear to God, Cole,” I say, already laughing into my drink.
“Can we not traumatize the entire public with a wedding-on-ice?” Viktor says, deadpan. “They’ve seen enough.”
Cole pouts. “You’re all boring.”
“No, you’re just possessed,” Damian mutters.
“By vision, sir.” Cole flutters his lashes.
Damian levels him with the calmest, most bone-dry glare I’ve ever seen. “You will not speak at the wedding.”
“Oh, I will,” Cole grins. “I’m doing the speech, Daddy Kade.”
Damian visibly flinches. “Strike two,” he says. Then he groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. Since we’re doing this…” He glances across the table at Viktor, who’s chewing stoically through a chocolate croissant. “Petrov… officiate?”
Viktor looks up. Doesn’t blink. “Da.”
“That’s it?” Cole huffs. “Da? That’s your whole answer? No speech? No vows? No tearful moment of joy?”
Viktor shrugs. “I can fake emotion if required.”
“How romantic,” Cole deadpans, sipping from a rainbow-strawed drink.
But then I turn toward him, twisting in my seat so I’m fully facing his dramatic ass, “Hollywood…”
Cole blinks. “Yes, curls?”
I grin. “Will you be my best man?”
Cole chokes. Literally chokes on his drink.
Slams it down, eyes huge, mouth open, and then melts.
Actually melts in the seat, clutching his chest like I just proposed to him.
“Oh my GOD—yes. Yes, absolutely. Fuck yes. I’m gonna cry.
You bitch,” he sniffles, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with a napkin.
“I already have a suit. I already have several speeches prepared. One with flashcards. One in iambic pentameter. One where I sing.”
“None of those,” Damian warns, sipping his coffee.
“Ignore him, baby, it’s your day,” Cole says to me, beaming.
“My day,” I echo, glowing now, even as Damian mutters “our day” under his breath.
“Wait, who’s walking you down the aisle?” Shane asks, leaning forward.
Everyone goes quiet, then Tyler blurts, “Coach?”
Coach—who just walked in with a fresh espresso—freezes mid-step. “The hell I am.”
My throat tightens. “Shane?” I ask, heart beating louder than I want to admit.
Shane freezes mid-sip of his bright blue monstrosity and blinks at me as the table falls silent, even Cole shutting up, and he just stares—long and hard—before slowly setting his cup down, crossing himself, and nodding once, solid, saying nothing as he grins and bangs the table twice in some holy hockey vow ritual none of us understand but all of us feel.
“He’s gonna cry before you,” Cole whispers, nudging me.
“Shut up,” I murmur, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
I turn toward Damian, all soft grin and glittering eyes, and ask, “What color suits are we wearing?”
Damian doesn’t even blink. Smirks slow and wicked. “Black and red, baby. You know that.”
Reapers colors. Our colors.
Cole practically squeals. “You’re wearing the team colors?? That’s iconic. Oh my God, the photos—the photos, Elias, do you understand what this means?”
“We are branding our love,” I whisper dramatically, eyes wide.
Shane thumps his fist on the table. “This is a covenant.”
Tyler mumbles something about black suits making him look pale and Cole throws a piece of croissant at his head. “Shut up, you’ll wear eyeliner.”
I’m still watching Damian. He’s watching me right back. “I love you,” I murmur across the table.
He smirks, leaning in. “I know.”
But then Coach—with his eternal timing and his graveyard tone—leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and says quietly, “Elias. What about your parents?”
The table stills. So do I. Every molecule in my chest tightens until my ribs creak under the weight. I don’t look at him. I don’t look at anyone. I just breathe in once, “Have you seen them at any of our games, Coach?”
His mouth presses into a thin line.
Damian’s hand slides over to my thigh beneath the table. Squeezes once firm, grounding. Like a reminder. Like I’m here. Say it.
So I do. “After my brother died,” I say, staring at the table, voice calm in that awful, numb kind of way, “our relationship went down the drain. They started blaming me for it. Indirectly at first. Then not so much.”
The silence is thick now. Stupid. Loud. I want to tear through it with my hands. “So, no,” I finish. “They’re not coming.”
“Good,” Viktor grunts.
“Fuck them,” Shane mutters.
Cole makes a noise like he just bit into something sour and emotional. “You’ve got us,” he says, his hand finding mine across the table. “You’ve always had us. And if they show up at the wedding, I will personally body-check them into the catering table.”
That makes me snort. A little. I finally look up, and Damian is staring at me like I hung the damn moon. “I’m proud of you,” he says.
I lean into him enough to feel the tremor in my own hands quiet. “I’m okay,” I whisper.