27. Brayden
brAYDEN
“Ready?” Karla grabbed my hand, squeezing it gently.
She was nervous. I could tell from the way her fingers flexed around mine—little quick squeezes like she was checking to see if I was still there. Spoiler—I was. Very, very there.
I kissed the top of her head before opening the restaurant door for her. “Heck yes. Let’s do this.”
I said it like I was about to skate out for a playoff game, but if I was being honest, my stomach was doing warm-up laps.
I’d pulled out all the stops for tonight.
Kari and Martha weren’t just friends—they were it for Karla.
Her people. Her chosen family. If I was going to stay in her life for the long haul like I was already secretly planning, tonight mattered.
Meeting them felt less like meeting friends and more like meeting the parents in some weird, upgraded boss level.
Only this time, instead of worrying if someone’s dad was going to hate me, I was worried if these two women were going to decide I was unfit for the most important person in their lives.
And somehow, that was worse.
The restaurant was one of those cozy, kind-of-fancy-but-not-stuffy places—exposed brick, soft lighting, dark wood tables. A low hum of Friday-night chatter hung in the air, mixed with the smell of garlic, grilled steaks, and something citrusy from the bar.
We followed the host through the main dining room toward the back. My heart thudded heavier with each step, like I was skating toward a shootout and I’d just realized I left my stick in the locker room.
We were escorted to a booth in the back, tucked beneath a window with twinkle lights framing the glass. On the table sat three bouquets of roses, exactly how I’d arranged it—two white, one red—each with a handwritten note tucked into the blooms.
Martha and Kari were already there, seated side by side in the booth, heads bent as they read their notes. Their faces were soft, eyes shining in a way that made my chest tighten.
It was a simple gesture—flowers and a few honest words—but it mattered. I wanted them to know that I saw them as part of this, too. That if they were Karla’s family, they were important to me by default.
“Evening, ladies,” I said after clearing my throat.
They both looked up at us with tears in their eyes, smiling like I’d already passed some secret test I didn’t know I was taking.
The one on the end of the booth scooted out quickly and wrapped me in a huge hug. “I feel like I already know you. I’m a hugger. Sorry,” she sniffled.
I hugged her back, trying not to look as stunned as I felt. I was used to fans yelling my name from the stands, not crying and hugging me because I wrote them notes in cursive like a Hallmark extra.
“Karla, that’s Kari,” I said in my head, mentally matching the names Karla had told me to the faces.
The hugger had to be Kari—bright, expressive eyes, hair piled in a messy bun that somehow looked intentional.
“And this is Martha,” I added silently as my gaze shifted to the other woman in the booth—Martha, who was quieter, measured, but smiling like her face might crack.
“Brayden, that’s Kari. And this is Martha,” Karla echoed out loud, pulling Kari off of me with a laugh and giving her a quick hug before pointing to her other friend on the inside of the booth.
“It’s a pleasure,” Martha muttered, wiping her eyes with the linen napkin. She had that vibe of someone who noticed everything and said only what counted. I filed that away.
Karla slid into the inside of the booth, and I followed, taking the spot beside her. I could feel the tension radiating off her—nervous energy fizzing under the surface.
She gave her friends a look. “What has gotten into you two?”
Kari beamed at me like I’d just scored a hat trick. “Brayden is pretty sweet.” She pushed the dozen red roses across the table toward Karla.
Watching Karla’s face as she noticed them was better than any game-winning goal. Her eyes widened slightly, then softened. She grabbed the note tucked into the bouquet, the one I’d rewritten four times that morning because every version either sounded too cheesy or not enough.
The note simply stated:
I will love you until my dying day.
I watched her read it. Once, twice—then a third time, like she was making sure her mind wasn’t filling in extra words. Tears welled up, her lips parting, her hand trembling just enough that I noticed.
Grabbing my hand under the table, Karla looked over at me, eyes wet but clear. “I love you too.”
Time did that weird stretchy thing—like a slow-motion replay. I knew she loved me; I’d felt it in the way she smiled at me, in the way she relaxed when she fell asleep in my arms. But hearing it out loud? In front of her friends? With my stupid romantic note sitting there like a confession?
Yeah. That hit different.
Martha and Kari both sniffled. Martha scooted closer to Karla and leaned in. “I think you found one of the good ones.”
Kari nodded, then turned that scrutiny on me. “So, Brayden, when you’re not making women cry all of the happy tears, what do you do for fun? Let’s get this conversation going.”
There it was—the shift into interrogation mode. I could almost hear the imaginary whistle blowing. Faceoff time.
“Wait,” Karla threw her hands up before I could answer. “What did your notes say?”
Of course she’d clocked that detail. Karla didn’t miss much.
Martha handed hers over. “It just said that he loves you and was going to tell you tonight.”
Karla’s eyes darted to mine, a tiny, incredulous smile tugging at her lips. “Babe.” Her voice was soft, almost reverent. “I just really can’t believe that you did all of this for us.”
I shrugged, the gesture automatic, even though my heart was pounding. “Kari and Martha are your family. I have to respect that and show them how serious I am about us.”
It was the truth. All of it. No bravado, no hockey swagger, just the plain, simple fact—I was all in with this woman, and that meant I was all in with the people who loved her, too.
Kari sniffled again, dabbing under her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “Okay, well, if this is the bar, every other man on the planet needs to step up their game.”
Martha nodded, lips quirking. “The roses were a nice touch. The notes were better.”
I shifted slightly, feeling my shoulders relax. “I’m not always this smooth, I promise.”
“Oh, we know,” Kari shot back, laughing. “We’ve heard the stories.”
Karla groaned, covering her face with one hand. “Please don’t.”
I grinned. “I’m not scared.”
That was only partially true. I was absolutely terrified—but in an oddly good way. The sort of terrified that meant something mattered.
The server appeared to take drink orders, giving us a brief reprieve from the emotional onslaught.
Kari ordered a margarita, Martha asked for a glass of red wine, Karla chose a cider, and I stuck with a beer.
Something about sitting across from these two felt like meeting the leadership team of Karla’s heart, and I didn’t want to be the guy slurring his words at the podium.
“So,” Kari said, once the server left, “hockey boy. When you’re not busy being annoyingly perfect, do you do anything else or is it all puck, all the time?”
“I mean,” I said, “puck is most of the time.” I squeezed Karla’s hand beneath the table. “But I cook. I like trash TV. I’m trying to figure out this whole ‘healthy work-life balance’ thing.”
Martha’s brows lifted. “Work-life balance. That’s rare for a pro athlete.”
I shrugged again. “Got tired of being miserable off the ice. Figured maybe I should try not sabotaging myself for once.”
Kari pointed at me with her straw. “We support that journey.”
Karla leaned into my side, her shoulder pressing against mine. I could feel her relaxing more with every passing minute. Her laugh slipped out easier. Her eyes stopped darting around the room like she was waiting for something bad to happen. She just… existed. In this moment. With her people.
And I realized how huge that was.
Meeting parents usually meant smiling politely and making safe jokes. Meeting Kari and Martha meant something deeper. They’d held Karla together when other people broke her. They’d seen her at her worst, stood in the wreckage, and helped her rebuild.
They were the ones who would see through any act, any bullshit, any performative version of me. So I didn’t give them one. I showed up as myself—rough edges, nerves, and all.
By the time our drinks arrived, the four of us had slipped into an easy rhythm—Kari dominating most of the conversation with hilarious stories about her boss, Martha dropping in dry one-liners that had me almost choking on my beer, Karla laughing so hard she snorted at one point.
It was… nice. More than nice.
It felt like being allowed into a part of Karla’s world that had always been closed off. Not because she didn’t want to share it, but because the guys she’d been with before had never deserved it.
And sitting there, with her hand anchored in mine and her friends smiling at me like I was something they were cautiously hopeful about, I realized something—I wanted to earn this. All of it. Not just Karla’s love, but their trust, their respect. I wanted to be the guy they were glad she chose.
I looked at her again—at the way her eyes sparkled when she talked, at the way she held her cider glass with both hands like it was keeping her tethered here—and felt a quiet, solid certainty settle in my chest.
I was already playing for keeps.