Chapter 3
Take One
Sofie
The Fairfax Media box smells like champagne, expensive cologne, and strategy. My favorite trifecta.
Lydia’s posture perfect, phone already angled like she was born knowing her best side.
Maya is calm in that way that tells you she’s already ten steps ahead and doesn’t need to announce it.
Across from us, Deacon’s parents sit close together, Antonio with his hands folded like he’s trying not to fidget, Gianna glowing like this entire situation is her personal Hallmark movie.
And honestly? Same, Gianna. Same.
They all know. Not just about the proposal, but about everything underneath it.
The custody concerns. Kyle’s looming legal circus.
The very deliberate reason this is moving fast, faster than polite society prefers.
We are not rushing because we’re reckless.
We’re rushing because timing is leverage, optics are power, and nothing makes a lawyer panic like airtight love wrapped in impeccable public sentiment.
They’ve seen it with their own eyes now.
Deacon with Claudia. Claudia with Deacon.
Not staged, not coached. The quiet touches.
The way his attention tracks her without effort.
The way she softens around him without losing herself.
It’s real, and that’s the part Kyle’s team can’t manufacture or dismantle.
Before they even knew I’d mentioned Christmas Eve, Gianna simply announced that if we were doing this, then obviously it should be Christmas Eve, because they’re already in the States for the holidays and also because love deserves drama, but the good kind.
Festive drama. Tulle-and-candlelight drama.
We’ve already taken the initial photos before heading up here with Deacon pregame.
No tension visible. No cracks. Lydia and Maya between Deacon and Gianna in one shot.
Antonio’s hand on Deacon’s shoulder in another, subtle but loaded.
Gianna and Claudia, and then all of them, with Paul Bronski holding Savannah, who was beaming at him. Family. Support. Stability.
Kyle’s lawyers are going to hate this set.
Clean. Unified. Fairfax Media box, everyone dressed impeccably but not try-hard.
Wealth whispers, confidence hums. I glance down at the ice, lights blazing, crowd roaring, and feel that familiar click in my chest. The one that says the narrative is locking into place.
Public affection, private certainty. A timeline that looks organic but is razor sharp.
I lift my glass, not to toast, just to breathe. This is the part I’m good at. The part where the world sees exactly what we want it to see.
And this time, for once, the truth makes it even better.
Claudia’s eyes sweep my face. “You okay?”
“Perfect,” I say. “How are you?”
“His parents are great, taking this better than I imagine I would. Lydia and Maya are—"
“Perfect,” I smile. “They are amazing. Let’s keep that going. Tonight is about three things: a hot couple, a happy baby, and a future family. No mention of custody, no mention of biological fathers, no hint that anyone in the universe has ever made a bad decision.”
Noelle whistles. “That’s a tall order for this crew.”
“Watch me,” I say.
Down on the ice, it’s almost time for puck drop when my phone vibrates.
Matteo:
Crew van accident. Minor injuries, but they’re in the ER for evaluation. We’ve got arena feed, but our shooters won’t make it.
I stare at the message for two seconds, then shove the little spike of panic down.
Sofie:
Are we sure they’re okay?
Matteo:
Yes.
Sofie:
I’ll use the team I have here to cover a special interest story. I’ll handle any player interviews we need.
Matteo:
You, meaning YOU you?
Sofie:
Yes.
Matteo:
With respect and love Sofie, be kind.
I smile as I hit the thumbs-up emoji response and tuck my phone away. No one notices the thread of adrenaline under my skin.
“Everything okay?” Nalani asks.
“The crew is okay, but they got into an accident and won’t make it tonight. I’ve got it covered.”
“Kilovac looks angry,” Noelle says, following my gaze.
“That one’s always angry,” I say automatically.
Nalani leans on the glass. “He’s also hot,” she observes. “Like, war criminal hot.”
I refuse to acknowledge that. “He’s a problem child,” I say. “On and off the ice.”
Claudia hums. “He keeps his appointments,” she says. “Mostly.”
Interesting.
“Do not shrink my potential PR headache,” I tell her.
She smiles down at Savannah. “I don’t shrink anyone. I just hand them better tools.”
I watch in segments, the way I watch everything. Story beats, not plays.
Deacon hops the boards for line one, and the goalie settles in behind him like a promise.
There’s a subtle shift in the air when he’s on the ice. Not louder. Sharper. Like everyone collectively sits up straighter without realizing they did it.
“That’s Deacon,” Nalani says unnecessarily.
“I know,” I reply, equally unnecessary.
“Deacon Moretti?” Noelle adds to the nonsense.
“Daddy Deacon,” Claudia smiles at Savannah.
“That’s what Mommy calls him when you nap,” I tell her.
I expect her or one of the girls to scold me. That’s not what happens though…
“Big Daddy,” Claudia smirks.
“Oh my God,” I laugh.
“These Bears carry big sticks,” Noelle wags her brows.
“Always have,” comes from behind us, and we all turn, and Paul’s standing behind us.
Oh. My. God.
“They get rid of the ones who don’t measure up,” he murmurs as he passes us to take his seat.
We all look at each other and try not to laugh, because, yeah…
Deacon bends at the circle, gloves resting on his thighs, jaw tight but eyes steady. He looks locked in, the kind of focus you can’t fake and can’t teach. He taps his stick, a quiet signal of trust. The puck drops.
The opposing team presses early, testing him the way predators test prey. The first shot comes fast, low, glove-side. Deacon drops clean, pads sealing the ice, rebound smothered before it can even think about becoming a problem. No drama. No scramble. Just ownership.
“God,” Noelle breathes. “He’s calm.”
“He’s lethal,” I correct. “Calm just makes it prettier.”
The crowd swells with that deep, approving roar that means they trust him. Trust is currency here. Deacon has it in bulk. He sells so easily.
Another rush. Traffic in front of the net. Sticks clatter. Bodies crash. Deacon doesn’t flinch. He tracks the puck through chaos like he’s reading it instead of reacting to it. Glove snaps up. Whistle blows.
Lydia leans forward so hard I’m half convinced she’s about to faceplant into the glass. Gianna notices instantly and presses a hand to Lydia’s back, and the two exchange smiles. Camera two pans in on them.
Good.
“That’s leadership,” Claudia murmurs. “From the back.”
“And protection,” I say. “From every angle.”
Deacon resets, smooth and unhurried, scanning the ice like a chessboard. He gives a quick nod to his defense, silent communication, the kind you only get after years of trust. This is not a man who panics. This is a man who holds the line and dares the world to cross it.
The next shot is meaner. High traffic, deflection risk, pure nightmare fuel for goalies who hesitate. Deacon doesn’t. He blocks, absorbs, freezes the puck against his chest like it belongs there.
The arena erupts.
I feel that familiar click in my chest, the one that means the narrative just locked.
Kyle’s lawyers will see a goalie doing his job. I see proof. Stability. Control. A man who stands his ground even when things come fast and ugly and public.
Deacon rises, taps the posts, and glances once toward the box. Not searching. Just checking. Like he knows exactly where Claudia is, his family is, because he does.
I sit back, pulse steady, smile in place. This is what safety looks like on ice. And it’s going to play beautifully.
Paul Bronski’s name flashes on the Jumbotron as “special guest in the building,” bringing the house down.
“Aww,” Noelle says. “Look at Paul. He loves the attention and hates that he loves it.”
Nalani lifts her phone. “Do we want a story of the suite? Or is this a ‘we’re ghosts until the campaign drops’ night?”
“Grab a couple of quiet clips,” I say. “No tags yet. Atmosphere only.”
Phones stay low. Lenses catch breath fog and blade scrape, and the way the crowd hums when it senses blood but hasn’t seen it spill yet.
Two minutes in, it’s still zero to zero, and New York is getting rough.
Not strategic rough. Not clean pressure. Frustrated rough.
I see it before it happens. I always do.
Their winger drives the crease late, way too late, momentum unchecked.
He doesn’t even pretend he’s stopping. He plows straight through the blue paint, skates carving snow into Deacon’s pads, shoulder clipping him as the puck sails wide.
Then, because apparently, we’re choosing violence tonight, he slashes Deacon’s glove on the follow-through.
Hard. Deliberate. The kind of move that’s supposed to earn you a very cozy seat in the box.
The ref looks directly at it and does nothing.
The crowd explodes, half fury, half disbelief. Deacon goes down on one knee, mask snapping back slightly, glove hand tight to his chest. He stays upright, because of course he does, but I clock the tension in his shoulders. That wasn’t an accident. That was a message.
Aleks reacts instantly. He doesn’t think. He launches. He’s already on the winger before the puck even resets, shoving him backward with both hands, skates churning, chest to chest. He plants himself in front of Deacon like a human barricade, stick horizontal, eyes wild.
“You don’t touch him,” Aleks snaps, loud enough for a mic to pick it up and to blare through the system, “Ever.”
The winger laughs, because of course he does. Laughs like he didn’t just get away with something nasty or because he did.