Page 106 of Chasing The Goal
Ava points at me dramatically. “Mrs. Goal-Scoring, Baby-Raising, Thick-Thighed Daddy Material.”
“I hate both of you,” I say, laughing.
“Shut up, you love us,” Ava says, kissing my cheek and handing me a mimosa. “To Mallory Prescott, the hottest WAG in Vegas.”
Lola burps. We cheers anyway.
The chapel was smaller than I expected—cream-colored stucco and stained-glass hearts in the window. It smelled like lilies and last-minute magic. There were gold-trimmed pews that squeaked when people sat down and fake rose petalsscattered across the center aisle like a half-hearted attempt at elegance.
I stood at the entrance in my off-the-shoulder dress, clutching my bouquet with slightly shaking fingers. Dakota stood beside me, holding Lola in her arms, bouncing gently and whispering nonsense into her ear.
“She knows,” Dakota said with a grin. “She can feel the chaos.”
“She is the chaos,” I whispered back.
The chapel doors opened. I stepped forward.
Ava sat in the front row, already dabbing at her eyes. Logan was beside her, somehow managing to look dignified in a tux and sneakers, his hand resting on her thigh like he couldn’t stop touching her.
And at the altar—Jaymie.
He didn’t move when he saw me. Didn’t fidget. Just stood there, still and solid, like he was anchoring the entire room with nothing but the way he looked at me.
Like I was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
Like I was still that girl who showed up at his doorstep soaked in snow, unsure of everything except the fact that I trusted him.
When I reached him, he took both my hands. His thumb rubbed across the spot where my engagement ring now sat, steady and certain.
Theminister’s voice was a low hum in the background. The vows were fast, simple. No big speeches. No dramatic declarations. Just:
“I do.”
And his smile when he said it—like he’d been waiting his whole life for the moment he could finally mean it.
I said it back through tears.
“I do.”
***
Afterward, Dakota took Lola back to the hotel, armed with three bottles, two pacifiers, and a promise to FaceTime me the second anything went sideways.
And then we hit the strip.
Logan had VIP access to everything. Clubs. Rooftops. Velvet ropes parting like magic. The six of us—Jaymie, Logan, Connor, Darren Ava, and me—walked into that first club and the energy shifted. People whispered. Flashbulbs popped. Someone yelled “Prescott!” and it took me a second to realize they meant me too now.
Jaymie leaned over, his voice rough in my ear. “Still want that quiet wedding?”
“Not anymore,” I said, laughing, looping my arm through his.
Champagne flowed. Music pulsed. Jaymie held my waist like I was something rare and breakable and his all at once. Ava danced on a table. Logan body-checked a guy who got too handsy near our booth. The Cup showed up halfway through the night, hoisted by a teammate still half-drunk from the win.
And me? I kissed my husband in the middle of the dance floor, his ring catching the lights, my cheeks hurting from how much I smiled.
This wasn’t the wedding I would have ever planned.
It was better.
