Chapter 29 Brad #2
Serena hooked her pinky with his, then held out her other hand to me. "Pinky promise."
We must have looked ridiculous—a broken hockey player, a panicking pregnant teacher, and an asthmatic seven-year-old, making pinky promises while the Stanley Cup waited and twenty thousand phones recorded.
But someone—Theo, probably—started clapping.
Then the whole team. Then the entire arena, because hockey fans are suckers for family drama.
"Mr. Wilder?" Commissioner’s voice carried a note of barely contained impatience. "The Cup?"
I stood, pulling my family up with me. The Cup was heavy—thirty-five pounds of silver and history. But holding it with Finn on my hip (inhaler and all) and Serena pressed against my side (pregnant, terrified, mine), it felt lighter than air.
"How does it feel?" Some reporter shoved a microphone at us.
I looked at Serena, whose hand had found her stomach in that protective gesture I'd be seeing for the next seven months. At Finn, whose breathing had finally steadied. At the Cup, which would sit in our house for exactly one day before moving on to the next winner.
"Like the beginning," I said.
The crowd roared approval, reading triumph where I meant truth.
This was the end of my career—my knee would never recover, we all knew it.
But it was also the start of everything else: Serena and I navigating pregnancy together, Finn getting a sibling, our strange little family adding another complicated piece.
"Brad?" Serena whispered as chaos erupted around us—champagne and music and teammates celebrating. "I love you. Even though you can't skate anymore."
"I love you too. Even though you tried to give our kid the wrong inhaler."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
Finn looked between us, then at the Cup, then at Serena's stomach. "Is the baby gonna have breathing problems too?"
We both froze. It was the question we'd both been thinking but couldn't voice.
"Maybe," Serena said carefully. "But if they do, we already know what to do. We've got practice."
"And I can teach them," Finn added, brightening. "I'm really good at breathing exercises now."
Someone sprayed champagne directly in my face. The moment shattered into celebration—Theo lifting Finn onto his shoulders, Sarah's parents crying and hugging Serena, the Cup being passed around like a holy relic. But through it all, I kept one hand on Serena's waist, anchoring us both.
The proposal wasn't planned—nothing about us ever was.
My destroyed knee had finally gone numb from whatever chemical cocktail Dr. Patricia had injected, which meant I could kneel without screaming.
So I did, right there on melting ice, while twenty thousand people watched and Finn clung to my neck like a koala.
"What are you doing?" Serena's eyes went wide. "Brad, your knee—"
"Serena Voss." My voice cracked. Around us, teammates were spraying champagne and wrestling over the Cup, but they all stopped, creating a circle like this was some ancient ritual.
"You literally blew into our lives during a storm.
You've sat through seventeen breathing treatments at 3 AM.
You know which nostril Finn prefers for nasal spray. You're carrying our baby—"
She pressed her hands to her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
My brain felt scrambled. One baby still seemed impossible to wrap my head around. One meant everything would change. One meant double the love but also double the worry about respiratory issues, about being good enough—
"Are you gonna ask her or just stay frozen like that?" Theo's voice cut through my spiral. "Your knee's about to give out and this is being broadcast nationally."
"Right. Shit. Serena—" I started over, aware that the cameras were definitely catching this entire proposal. "Will you marry me? Will you be the person who reminds Finn that vegetables aren't poison and makes sure I don't ignore doctor's orders? Will you build this crazy, beautiful life with us?"
She was cry-laughing, that hiccup thing she did when overwhelmed. "Oh god, I’m not even properly dressed. This is the worst timing ever."
"Is that a no?"
"Of course it's not a no, you idiot."
Theo materialized with a ring box like a magic trick. "Finally," he muttered, pressing it into my hand. "I've been carrying this thing for three weeks."
"You bought a ring three weeks ago?" Serena stared at me.
"No, two months ago. Theo's been holding it because I kept chickening out."
The ring was simple—she'd hate anything flashy. A solitaire that caught the arena lights and threw tiny rainbows, like hope crystallized into carbon. My hands shook as I slid it on. It fit perfectly because of course Theo had somehow figured out her ring size, probably through Maria.
"Daddy, why is everyone crying?" Finn asked from his perch on my shoulders.
"Happy tears, buddy. We're getting married."
"Does that mean Miss Serena can't leave anymore?"
The innocence of it gutted everyone in earshot.
"I'm never leaving," Serena promised, reaching up to squeeze his hand. "Even when you're a teenager and hate us."
"Teenagers plural," I reminded her. "Don’t forget the baby."
"Don't." She pressed her forehead against mine. "One crisis at a time."
The party at Theo's was subdued by Stanley Cup standards—no one jumped off the roof into the pool, only two lamps died, and the cops never came.
I'd announced my retirement in the locker room yesterday, watching my teammates' faces shift from shock to understanding as they took in my knee, now swollen to twice its normal size despite ice and elevation.
"Two weeks' notice," I'd told Coach. "Surgery Monday. Then I'm done."
"The assistant coach position's yours," he'd said immediately. "Whenever you're ready."
Now I sat on Theo's couch, leg elevated on three pillows, Finn drooling on my shoulder, while Serena fielded video calls from her parents.
"Twins?" her mother shrieked through the phone. "And engaged? And Stanley Cup? Should I be sitting down?"
"You are sitting, Mom."
"I should lie down. Twins. My daughter who swore to never be in relationship again is engaged and having twins."
I caught Serena's eye and we shared that look—the same stunned expression we'd had three days ago when Dr. Lisa had moved the ultrasound wand around during what was supposed to be a routine checkup to make sure everything was developing normally.
"Well," she'd said, pausing the screen, "everything looks very healthy. Both babies."
"Both?" Serena and I had said in unison.
"You didn't know? Oh my. Yes, see here and here? Two heartbeats, two little ones. Congratulations."
We'd sat in that exam room afterward, holding hands and staring at the ultrasound photos like they were written in a foreign language.
Across the room now, Sarah's parents sat with the Cup, running their fingers over its surface, probably wondering how their quiet evening had turned into this chaos of celebration and life-changing news.
Maria appeared, dropped onto the couch beside us with zero grace. "So. Twins. You know that means two college tuitions, right?"
"We'll figure it out," Serena said, but I heard the worry underneath.
"Maybe I should continue playing—" I started.
"You absolutely will not." Serena's teacher voice emerged. "You're getting surgery. You're learning to walk properly again. You're going to be able to dance at our wedding without crying."
"Bold of you to assume I won't cry at our wedding anyway."
"Emotional crying. Not physical pain crying."
"What's the difference?"
"About six months of physical therapy."
Finn stirred, mumbled something about dragons, then settled deeper into my shoulder. His breathing was perfect—deep, even, unobstructed. A minor miracle we'd learned not to take for granted.
"Hey," I said quietly, pulling Serena closer. "We're having twins."
"We're having twins," she agreed, equal parts wonder and panic.
"And getting married."
"And getting married."
"And I'm retiring."
"Thank God for that."
Finn chose that moment to wake up, blinking confusedly at the room full of adults in various stages of inebriation. "Did we win?" he asked sleepily.
I looked at Serena's ring catching the light, at the Cup within arm's reach, at our son—our son now, in every way that mattered—safe and breathing easy.
"Yeah, buddy," I said. "We won everything."