Page 147 of Player Misconduct
I pull her close, one hand cradling her face, the other resting gently over Niko. And I kiss her like it's every overtime goal I've ever dreamed of, every miracle I've ever prayed for, every star I've ever wished on.
The crowd erupts… a full-stadium roar, streamers shooting, rose petals and Finnish candy raining from the rafters.
The announcer's voice booms: "Ladies and gentlemen… Mr. and Mrs. Mäkelin!"
We break apart, breathless and laughing, and the team rushes in—helmets off, tuxes on, mobbing us with backslaps and bear hugs.
Juliet's crew wheels out a three-tier cake shaped like a hockey puck, "Forever On Ice" piped in blue frosting across the top.
I slip my arm around her waist, my other hand resting over Niko. Flashbulbs explode. The ice glitters beneath our feet. The crowd chants our names.
This time, the world isn't watching to tear us apart. It's watching us begin.
Kendall leans up, whispers against my ear, "You ready to kick ass on the last period?"
I grin, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I’ve never been more ready for anything."
The scoreboard glows above us in soft script:
"Some stars belong on the ice."
And for the first time since I met her, I know that we're exactly where we're supposed to be.
Epilogue
Aleksi
The building isalive.
That's the only way to describe it—the way twenty thousand voices rise and fall like a single breathing thing, the way the air itself seems to hum with possibility. We're up 3–1 with ten minutes left in the third, and the energy in Hawkeyes Arena is the kind that makes your spine tingle, the kind that reminds you why you fell in love with this game in the first place.
I'm on the bench, helmet off, towel around my neck, one leg bouncing like a rookie who's never seen playoff intensity before. Except this isn't playoff intensity. This is something else entirely.
My wife is in the stands.
Myverypregnant wife.
Thirty-nine weeks, to be exact. Kendall insisted she was fine to come. "It's good luck," she said this morning, one hand on her belly, the other holding her coffee like a weapon. "You've never lost a game I've attended."
"That's because you make me play better," I told her, kissing her temple.
"Or because you're showing off," she countered, but she was smiling.
Now, sitting here on the bench, I can't stop glancing up at the WAG section where she's wedged between Vivi and Peyton, belly so round she looks like she swallowed a basketball. She catches me looking and waves, rolling her eyes in that affectionate way that saysfocus on the game, sunshine.
The Jumbotron catches us—zooms in on her waving, then cuts to me grinning like an idiot—and the crowd erupts in a collective "awww."
I tap my heart with my glove, the way I always do, and she presses her hand to hers.
Our ritual.
Coach Haynes leans over, voice gruff but amused. "You good, Mäkelin?"
"Never better, Coach."
He snorts. "Then get your head in the game. We've got ten minutes to close this out."
"Yes, sir."
