Chapter 40
Dual POV
The morning sun broke across the frozen surface of Lake Champlain in a blinding sheet of white gold, pouring through the glass-enclosed porch into the living room.
The storm had vanished into Canada, leaving the Adirondack high peaks sharp and clean against an azure sky. In the cast-iron woodstove, dry birch logs crackled with steady, crackling heat that warmed the pine floorboards.
I sat on the braided wool rug with my back resting against the base of the sofa, wrapped in a thick fleece blanket.
Beside me, sitting cross-legged with his broad shoulder pressed firmly against mine, was Chosen.
He was clean. He had showered in the small slate bathroom, shaved the ragged black stubble from his jaw, and pulled on a fresh gray long-sleeve thermal and dark sweatpants.
The dark purple bruises beneath his eyes remained, but the dead, hollow glaze was gone.
His dark eyes were clear, focused on my face with an unblinking, quiet reverence that made the air in my throat turn thick and sweet.
On the low table between us sat a plate of dry toast, two peeled oranges, and a fresh mug of ginger tea. He had brought them to me at seven o'clock without a word, sitting on the floorboards until I took the first bite, watching over my stomach like an armed sentry.
Beneath the heavy fleece blanket, his right hand covered mine.
His large, calloused palm was warm as iron, pressing gently over my fingers where they rested against the lower curve of my abdomen.
"We don't live in the dark anymore, Chosen," I said.
My voice was quiet, steady, cutting through the crackle of the birch logs with clean, surgical precision.
"No more martyrdom. No more taking checks into the boards so nobody else has to bleed. If you have a crisis with an agent, with an athletic director, with your family, or with Julian’s trust, you bring it to this table.
We decide together. Or you pack your truck and drive back across the lake right now. "
Chosen didn't hesitate. He didn't blink.
He slid his fingers between mine, his thick grip locking our knuckles together over the soft cotton covering our child.
He lifted our joined hands to his mouth, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the antique silver signet ring on my pinky, his breath hot against my knuckles.
"Zero lies, Marie," he rasped, his baritone thick with gravel and an absolute, unshakeable surrender. "Zero secrets. My future, my contract, my draft—it all belongs to you and this baby. Whatever terms you lay down, that is the law of my life. I am yours. All of me."
A profound, bone-deep stillness settled over my ribs. The tension that had locked my jaw since January melted away, my breath releasing in a long, shuddering sigh of pure, unreserved peace.
I leaned my head against his broad shoulder, feeling the deep, steady forty-eight-beat rhythm of his heart hammering against his ribs, and closed my eyes in the sunlight.
* * *
I didn't let her walk to the bedroom.
I gathered her into my arms, lifting her off the braided rug as easily as breathing, the fleece blanket trailing over my forearm.
She let out a soft, breathless gasp, her arms looping around my neck, her forehead resting against the clean line of my jaw as I carried her down the short timber hallway into the master bedroom.
The room was flooded with clean morning light reflecting off the snowdrifts outside the corner glass.
I lowered her onto the charcoal linen mattress with agonizing, deliberate care, following her down until the wooden platform bed took my two hundred and twenty-eight pounds.
I didn't crush her; I braced my forearms on the pillows on either side of her shoulders, letting my weight settle over her frame with gentle, protective gravity.
Her dark hair spilled across the dark linen like silk.
Her cheeks were flushed a soft, healthy rose, her dark eyes looking up into mine with that raw, unmasked trust that made the blood roar in my ears.
"Chosen," she whispered, her hands coming up to rest flat against my chest, her palms searing through my thermal shirt.
"Look at me, Marie," I rumbled, my voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that made her eyelashes flutter.
I reached down with both hands, catching the hem of her gray sweater. Slow. Reverent. I gathered the cotton, lifting it over her head, letting the fabric fall to the floor.
She lay before me in the white winter light, her pale skin smooth, the delicate curve of her ribs expanding and contracting in rapid, shallow breaths.
I slid my large, calloused hands down her torso, my palms framing the gentle, soft swell of her lower abdomen.
My throat tightened until I could barely draw air.
I lowered my head, pressing my mouth flat against the skin of her belly, right over the life growing silently beneath her flesh.
I kissed her there—once, twice, three times—lingering until my hot breath warmed her skin, my hands trembling with an awe so profound it shattered the remaining pieces of my pride.
"Look at what we made, sweetheart," I rasped against her skin, my thumb smoothing over the crest of her hip bone. "You are carrying my whole life in your body. Good girl. Look at me."
A fractured, breathless cry broke from her lips.
She reached down, her small hands tangling into the short hair at the back of my skull, hauling my face upward until my mouth crashed down over hers.
The kiss was an unhurried, devastating reclamation.
My lips claimed hers with deep, rhythmic worship, tasting the sweet peppermint of her breath, drinking her soft gasps as my body settled gently between her parted thighs.
The friction of our skin was a slow, consuming heat that drove every ghost from the room. I moved with agonizing patience, holding her hips, murmuring low, broken words of praise against her throat as our bodies found an ancient, sacred cadence in the morning light.
"All mine, Marie," I growled against her lips, my hips meeting hers in a deep, grounding press that stole the air from her chest. "You're all mine."
"Yours," she gasped, her back arching off the sheets, her fingernails digging into the dense muscle of my shoulders as the release broke across her nervous system in long, shuddering waves.
I buried my face in the curve of her neck, holding her tight against my chest, and let my own release claim every atom of our future in the quiet room.
* * *
One week later, the glare of thirty television camera lights turned the press auditorium at the Olympic Center in Lake Placid into a blinding white arena.
The national championship trophy gleamed at the center of the mahogany dais.
Carver had won the National Title forty-eight hours ago, defeating North Dakota 3–2 in sudden-death overtime, with Knox Davies roofing the winning shot off a tape-to-tape cross-ice feed I had threaded through three defensemen.
The room was packed with eighty reporters from ESPN, TSN, and every major sports desk in North America. The air hummed with aggressive questions about Reginald Sterling’s arrest, the vacated compliance inquiries, and my upcoming position in the NHL Entry Draft.
The side stage door clicked open.
I stepped out onto the carpeted riser, wearing a tailored black three-piece suit, my white collar crisp beneath a dark green silk tie, my posture low and commanding.
I didn't walk to the podium alone.
My right hand was locked tight around Marie’s fingers, our knuckles interlocked in plain sight of eighty flashing cameras and the national broadcast feed.
Marie walked beside me, her head held high, her spine straight as rebar. She wore an elegant, tailored emerald blazer over a cream silk blouse, her dark hair pinned in a sleek twist, her skin radiant in the halogen wash.
Pinned proudly over her heart, gleaming in the camera flashes, was Julian Mercer’s silver #14 varsity pin.
The reporters erupted, shouting questions over the hum of the audio monitors:
"Chosen, are the rumors true about the Western Conference boycott?"
"Miss Freeman, did you submit your final clinical sign-off to the NCAA?"
I stepped up to the central microphone, my left arm sliding around Marie’s waist, pulling her flush against my side. I held her against my ribs, unyielding and permanent, before leaning down to the mic.
"Carver University won this championship because of the independent medical authority of our supervising fellow, Marie Freeman," I said, my baritone rolling through the auditorium with absolute, dead-level authority that silenced the room in three seconds.
The flashbulbs strobed across our faces in a silent, blinding storm.
"My draft status is clear," I continued, holding the gaze of the lead NHL analyst in the front row.
"My representation will not be managed by Apex Sports. And my entry-level contract will be signed exclusively with a franchise that accommodates the location of Miss Freeman’s post-graduate fellowship with the United States Olympic Committee. "
A collective gasp rippled through the press corps.
I didn't look at the cameras.
I turned my head, looking down into Marie’s dark, luminous eyes.
She looked up at me, her chin tilted proudly, her small hand resting flat over the buttons of my suit jacket right above my hammering heart. Her fingers squeezed mine, an unbreakable, iron covenant forged in the dark and brought into the light.
"She is my partner," I said into the microphone, my voice dropping into a quiet, sacred gravel that echoed off the auditorium walls. "She is my future. And wherever she goes, that is where I play."
I stepped back from the podium, our hands locked together, and walked off the stage into the daylight with the woman who owned my soul.