Page 77 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

Back in Sunset Cove, Jake is sending us daily updates. Abby reports he’s feeding Wag way too many treats, and Beckett swears the dog has taken over their entire living room. Griff sent a photo of Wag curled up on the youth hockey jerseys in the locker room, with the caption: "Team mascot status: confirmed."

I show Quinn, and we both laugh until our sides hurt.

At every port, we dive into adventure. In Santorini, we rent scooters and zip along the cliffs, stopping for fresh olives and sunset selfies. In Venice, Quinn insists we get lost on purpose, winding through alleys and footbridges until we stumble on a courtyard filled with string lights and a man playing violin.

We hike a jungle trail in Costa Rica where a toucan steals our lunch. We snorkel in Belize and toast each other with pineapple drinks so strong we can barely walk back to the boat.

In Kyoto, we visit a temple and tie a blessing to a tree. Quinn writes hers carefully, tongue between her teeth, and when I peek, it says: "For love that lasts—and laughter that never stops."

Somewhere between Greece and Morocco, we fall into a rhythm that feels timeless. We try things we’ve never done—a cooking class in Barcelona where Quinn nearly sets a towel on fire. She scolds me for hoarding hotel soaps, and I tease her for packing eight novels and finishing them all in two weeks.

But there are quiet moments too. Ones where we sit on the balcony with coffee, watching the sun rise over turquoise water. No pressure. No pretense. Just... us.

One night, after a formal dinner and an overly dramatic violin performance, I take her hand as we walk the upper deck.

"You know," I say, "I used to think the best days of my life were behind me."

She gives me a side-eye. "You mean the hockey days?"

I nod. "Yeah. But I was wrong. They were good. But they weren’t this."

She leans her head on my shoulder. "This is better."

I stop walking and face her, brushing windblown hair from her face. "It’s more than better, Quinn. It’s the life I never let myself believe I could have."

She takes my hand and presses it to her heart. "Then hold onto it. We’re just getting started."

We stand there, swaying with the motion of the ship, under a sky full of stars. There’s music in the background, waves below, and her fingers locked with mine. The world feels wide open and small at once.

And in that moment, I know for sure—

This isn’t just a honeymoon.

This is our beginning.

When we finally dock back home, the surprises aren’t over.

As we step off the cruise ship, a white stretch limo is waiting at the port terminal. And beside it? A whole crowd of familiar faces holding signs, balloons, and welcome-back banners. Jake is jumping up and down with Wag in his arms, and Liz is holding a bouquet of daisies nearly as tall as she is.

Griff’s yelling something about how he’s reclaiming his grilled cheese crown, and Beckett’s trying to herd everyone into a group for photos.

“Did you plan this?” Quinn whispers.

I shake my head, stunned. “Not a clue.”

Abby waves us forward. “Sunset Cove missed its favorite newlyweds! Now get in the limo—there’s a party waiting!”

The drive through town is like a slow parade. Horns honk, people wave, and someone even tosses confetti from the balcony of The Sweet Bean.

At the edge of the beach, we pull up to a full-blown backyard BBQ at our house—grills smoking, twinkle lights strung from the porch, picnic tables full of food, and a makeshift dance floor already in use.

It smells like home. Feels like magic.

Everyone’s there—friends, family, neighbors, even the mayor in a Hawaiian shirt. Kids run with sparklers, the older ladies gossip in a corner with sweet tea, and the guys form a cornhole tournament on the lawn.

Quinn and I make the rounds, hugging everyone, swapping stories. We end the night barefoot on the beach, surrounded by people who love us.

And after the last guest leaves, we step inside our beach house—our home. It’s cozy, decorated now with Quinn’s flair, lived-in and full of joy. Wag races in ahead of us, yipping at shadows.

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