Epilogue. Mads #2
For a few seconds, I just stand there with my hand in my pocket, fingers closed around the velvet ring box, waiting for the right moment.
Which is bullshit. There is no right moment.
The room is only getting louder, Sam looks two seconds away from giving a TED Talk, and if I wait any longer, I’m going to lose my nerve.
So I pull it out.
Nobody notices at first. They’re all watching Chris, who is explaining—haltingly, awkwardly—that yes, we’re serious, no, it’s not a joke, and yes, he’s very happy, thank you for asking, even though nobody has actually asked that.
Then I turn toward him.
Chris catches the movement immediately. His eyes flick to my face first, confused, then dart to my hand. To the box.
That’s when I drop to one knee in front of him on the locker room floor.
It takes the room a second to catch up. Chris gets there first, obviously. Then Sam cuts himself off mid-sentence with an actual choking sound, and after that, the noise dies so fast it feels like someone pulled a plug.
I can feel every eye on me, on the box in my hand, on Chris’s face, which has gone from pink to dark red in the space of a heartbeat.
“Chris,” I say. My voice is steadier than I expected.
My hands are not. “I know this wasn’t the plan.
The plan was us coming out, surviving it, then maybe going back to my place, ordering Thai food, and talking about how it went.
But I’ve had this ring for three weeks now, and every time I told myself I was waiting for the right moment, I was lying.
I was scared shitless you’d say no.” I swallow.
“I’m still scared shitless you’ll say no. But I can’t wait anymore.”
Chris stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. His mouth is open. His eyes are wide.
For one second, I think he might actually faint, which is not ideal during a proposal.
“I love you,” I continue. “I’ve loved you since that night on the train, and probably before that, and I want to spend my life with you.
Waiting feels stupid, so I don’t want to do it.
” I take a deep breath. “So. Christopher Rodriguez. Will you marry me? And also move in with me, because my apartment is bigger and has better water pressure?”
Laughter ripples around us, but it sounds far away. I’m only looking at Chris.
I open the box.
The ring is simple. Platinum, no stone, just a band with a thin line of black carbon fiber running through the center.
I picked it because Chris doesn’t wear jewelry, because he’s practical, because anything flashy would sit in a drawer, and because I want this to be something he actually wears every day.
For a second, he only stares at the ring. Then he looks at me. Then back at the ring, like he needs to confirm this is really happening.
“Are you serious?” he says after a beat.
I smile. “Very.”
He laughs. It’s a choked, disbelieving sound, and somehow that makes me more nervous than the silence did.
Then he looks at me for one long second, and all the panic drains out of his face.
“I love you too,” he says. “And yes. Of course I’ll marry you.”
The room erupts.
Rami’s whistle cuts through the cheering, and someone—definitely Sam—shouts, “OH MY GOD,” loud enough to make half the room laugh. That sets everyone off properly, clapping and shouting over each other, the noise rising until one voice breaks out into a chant.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
A second later, it’s coming from every direction.
I’m still on one knee, still trying to process the word yes, when Chris reaches for me.
His hand lands on my face, warm and a little shaky, and he pulls me up. It takes me a second to get my feet under me, but the moment I’m standing, his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is not gentle. It’s hungry and happy, his free hand gripping the back of my neck, and I kiss him back just as hard, the ring box still clutched in my fist between us. Everybody shouts, and a second later I break the kiss, because okay, enough, these guys have already had plenty.
Chris looks dazed when I pull back. So do I, probably.
But the ring is still in the box, and that suddenly feels like the most important problem in the world.
I take it out and slide it onto Chris’s finger.
It fits.
I measured his ring finger while he was asleep, because I am, contrary to popular belief, capable of planning.
The black carbon fiber catches the light, beautiful against his skin, and Chris stares at it like he’s never seen his own hand before.
“There,” I say, my voice a little rough. “Now it’s official.”
His eyes lift to mine, soft and bright and so full of love that my chest goes tight.
Then Sam crashes into us.
He throws his arms around both of us with enough force to knock me sideways, and Roman is right behind him, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen him smile.
The rest of the team converges in that chaotic, overwhelming way hockey players have—all at once, too loud and rough, everyone talking over everyone else.
“I called it,” Sam is saying, his voice muffled against Chris’s shoulder. “Rome, back me up, I called this months ago. The night after Copenhagen, I told you. I said, those two are fucking, and you said I was being insane—”
“I said you were being invasive,” Roman corrects, but he’s laughing. “Congratulations, you two. Seriously.”
Coach Toledo reaches us last, letting the team have its moment before he steps in. “Congrats, boys,” he says, shaking Chris’s hand first and then mine.
The words are gruff, but there’s something in his eyes—a knowing, almost amused glint that makes my stomach drop for a second.
Because he doesn’t look surprised.
Of course he fucking doesn’t. Toledo notices everything.
It’s why he’s good at his job and scary to work with.
And because the guy reads cheap paperback mysteries like they’re training manuals, I’m suddenly thinking about that night on the train—about him putting Chris and me in the same compartment after the worst game of the season.
At the time, I thought it was punishment.
Looking at him now, I’m not completely sure.
The thought should probably unsettle me. Maybe it will later.
But before I can decide what to do with it, Chris’s hand finds mine.
Our fingers lace together, the ring cool against my skin. He’s still blushing, but he’s smiling too, and when he looks at me again, his eyes are so soft it makes my chest tight.
“You’re insane,” he whispers, just for me.
“Probably,” I say.
“And yes,” he adds, his thumb brushing over mine. “I’ll move in with you.”
I grin. “For the water pressure?”
“For the water pressure,” he says, smiling wider.
I have to kiss him again after that. Just once, quick and stupidly happy, because I can.
Around us, the locker room is already settling into its new reality—guys making jokes, asking if they’re invited to the wedding, whether there’ll be an open bar, and what we’re going to name the kids.
It’s stupid and loud and perfect.
Exactly as it’s supposed to be.
THE END
Mads and Chris’s story may be over, but we’re not done with the Saints and Wraiths just yet.