45. Mallory
Mallory
The jet to Vegas was ridiculous. Sleek black exterior, white leather seats that somehow still smelled like money and jet fuel.
There was a mirrored bar stocked with champagne and energy drinks, and Bluetooth speakers blasting a curated playlist that alternated between hype anthems and the occasional boy band throwback. Because Logan had range, apparently.
He strutted aboard in aviators, a hoodie with his own number on the back, and a smug grin like he was born in a GQ spread.
“ Go big or go home,” he declared, tossing a handful of mini vodka bottles onto the tray table like confetti. “And none of you are going home tonight.”
Ava rolled her eyes. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m a married menace,” he said, then turned and winked at me. “Soon you will be too.”
Jaymie squeezed my hand tighter at that, the kind of squeeze that said we’re doing this, for real. His thumb traced over my knuckles like he couldn’t quite believe I was still sitting beside him.
Dakota slipped into the seat across from us twenty minutes later, fresh off her connection from Burlington, eyes bleary but glowing. She dropped her duffel on the floor and stole the mimosa Logan tried to hand to Connor.
“I flew here on three hours of sleep and leftover airport sushi,” she said. “I deserve this.”
“You’re in a room with six Stanley Cup winners and a literal bride,” Ava said.
“I said what I said,” Dakota replied, deadpan.
The whole team had been buzzing the second word got out.
Darren bought two boxes of cigars and passed them around like favors.
stood on one of the armrests and gave a toast about loyalty and found family that made half the room laugh and the other half misty-eyed.
One of the assistant coaches jokingly offered to officiate in exchange for free drinks in Vegas.
But Jaymie?
He just smiled quietly, leaned into me, and murmured, “I already booked the church.”
“The church?”
“The church,” he said. “Little white one off the strip. Demi Moore and Bruce Willis got married there.”
“That’s your pitch?”
“It felt right,” he said with a shrug. “Messy. Iconic. Weirdly us.”
And it was.
I’ve never been the kind of girl who dreamed about her wedding dress.
No Pinterest boards. No binder full of tulle samples.
I figured when the time came—if it came—it would be quiet.
Maybe even courthouse-level casual. Something that felt like me, not a production.
But then again, I also never thought I’d be marrying Jaymie Prescott in Las Vegas, with a baby on my hip and a Stanley Cup win under his belt.
Turns out life’s got jokes. Big, messy, beautiful ones.
“You’re not allowed to cry until the lashes are on,” Ava warns, waving a mascara wand at me like a weapon. “Tears now are illegal.”
“She’s not even crying yet,” Dakota mutters, fluffing out the soft white satin of my dress. “You’re the one who cried at the nail salon when they brought us complimentary champagne.”
“Because I’m emotionally available,” Ava retorts. “And because we were celebrating love, Dakota.”
The y’re both in my hotel room, standing in a sea of makeup brushes, garment bags, diaper wipes, and half-eaten room service pancakes.
Lola is kicking in her bassinet near the window, cooing softly at the ceiling like she’s deeply impressed with her own existence.
She’s wearing a white linen onesie with a baby-pink bow on her head.
Jaymie cried when he saw her this morning.
I don’t blame him.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I whisper, smoothing my hands down my dress. It’s simple—off-the-shoulder, no train, no veil. But it fits like a dream. Like it knew where it was going all along.
Dakota grins. “You’re gonna be Mrs. Stanley Cup Champion.”
Ava points at me dramatically. “Mrs. Goal-Scoring, Baby-Raising, Thick-Thighed Daddy Material.”
“I hate both of you,” I say, laughing.
“Shut up, you love us,” Ava says, kissing my cheek and handing me a mimosa. “To Mallory Prescott, the hottest WAG in Vegas.”
Lola burps. We cheers anyway.
The chapel was smaller than I expected—cream-colored stucco and stained-glass hearts in the window.
It smelled like lilies and last-minute magic.
There were gold-trimmed pews that squeaked when people sat down and fake rose petals scattered across the center aisle like a half-hearted attempt at elegance.
I stood at the entrance in my off-the-shoulder dress, clutching my bouquet with slightly shaking fingers. Dakota stood beside me, holding Lola in her arms, bouncing gently and whispering nonsense into her ear.
“She knows,” Dakota said with a grin. “She can feel the chaos.”
“She is the chaos,” I whispered back.
The chapel doors opened. I stepped forward.
Ava sat in the front row, already dabbing at her eyes. Logan was beside her, somehow managing to look dignified in a tux and sneakers, his hand resting on her thigh like he couldn’t stop touching her.
And at the altar—Jaymie.
He didn’t move when he saw me. Didn’t fidget. Just stood there, still and solid, like he was anchoring the entire room with nothing but the way he looked at me.
Like I was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
Like I was still that girl who showed up at his doorstep soaked in snow, unsure of everything except the fact that I trusted him.
When I reached him, he took both my hands. His thumb rubbed across the spot where my engagement ring now sat, steady and certain.
The minister’s voice was a low hum in the background. The vows were fast, simple. No big speeches. No dramatic declarations. Just:
“I do.”
And his smile when he said it—like he’d been waiting his whole life for the moment he could finally mean it.
I said it back through tears.
“I do.”
***
Afterward, Dakota took Lola back to the hotel, armed with three bottles, two pacifiers, and a promise to FaceTime me the second anything went sideways.
And then we hit the strip.
Logan had VIP access to everything. Clubs.
Rooftops. Velvet ropes parting like magic.
The six of us—Jaymie, Logan, Connor, Darren Ava, and me—walked into that first club and the energy shifted.
People whispered. Flashbulbs popped. Someone yelled “Prescott!” and it took me a second to realize they meant me too now.
Jaymie leaned over, his voice rough in my ear. “Still want that quiet wedding?”
“Not anymore,” I said, laughing, looping my arm through his.
Cha mpagne flowed. Music pulsed. Jaymie held my waist like I was something rare and breakable and his all at once. Ava danced on a table. Logan body-checked a guy who got too handsy near our booth. The Cup showed up halfway through the night, hoisted by a teammate still half-drunk from the win.
And me? I kissed my husband in the middle of the dance floor, his ring catching the lights, my cheeks hurting from how much I smiled.
This wasn’t the wedding I would have ever planned.
It was better.