“Hi,” he says.
“You planned all of this,” I say.
“Elena helped.”
“You called Elena first.”
“She knows you better than you know yourself.”
“That’s extremely true and I resent it.”
He grins. I squeeze his hand.
“She’s insufferable,” he says.
“I know,” I say into his shoulder. “I love her.”
We get married on the ice. Everyone lines up as our attendants including the entire team while Max and I take simple vows in front of a minister. Christopher delivers the wedding bands and just like that, we are husband and wife.
The arena goes loud. Recognition. Delight. The sound of twenty thousand people realizing what they’re watching and deciding, collectively, that they want to be here for it.
After the rings, officiant, and Fuze’s incomprehensible sobbing (Anthony films and posts), we skate at center ice amidst the arena’s roar. Max’s hand in mine, my father at the boards with Elena, who gave him a cannoli from a box I didn’t see her bring. Piper cries into Christopher’s hair, while Chase documents everything, knowing it’ll be shown to grandchildren.
Max pulls me into a stop at center. Ice sprays around us. He looks at me. “You okay?” he asks. The same question from the first night. The door opening in the dark.
“Yes,” I say. The same answer. Meaning it more every time.
He leans his forehead against mine. “We made a scene.”
“You made a scene.”
“You’re part of it now.”
“Apparently.” I tighten my grip on his hand. The enormous arena buzzes with twenty thousand people cheering on our behalf. I stand at center ice in a wedding dress, my mother’s flowers, and a ring that says “I’ve got you now.” For the first time, I feel completely without a plan. I am fine.
Max’s thumb moves across my knuckle once. Slow. Certain.
I’ve got you.
“Yeah,” I say. Out loud this time. “You do.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Max Stevens
The world does the thing it occasionally does where it narrows to a single point of focus and everything outside that point loses resolution. Twenty thousand people. The GM mid-sentence. Christopher on my hip pointing with his whole body. The team at the bench, which I know is losing its collective mind in my peripheral vision. Trey, who I can feel going still beside me because Trey notices everything. All of it peripheral.
Antonia Amato is walking toward me in a wedding dress in the middle of a Gold Coast Guardians pre-game ceremony in front of twenty thousand people and four television cameras and whatever is happening on the arena Jumbotron right now, and her left shoulder is level, and her green eyes are on mine, and she is not stopping.
Toni has hidden in parking lots, sat in cars regulating her breathing before driving home. She has managed rooms, maintained professional distance, and held herself together through every moment that threatened to break her down. She is walking toward me on NHL ice in a wedding dress. No clipboard. No badge. Nothing to hide behind.
Christopher says, at full volume directly into my ear: "Uncle Max, she's wearing a pretty dress."
"Yeah, bud," I say. My voice comes out wrong. Rough. I don't care.
"Is she going to stay this time?"
The question drives straight into the center of my heart with the specific weight of a three-year-old who has been paying more attention than anyone gave him credit for. I hold him tighter. "Yeah," I say. "She's going to stay." Chase takes Christopher.
