Page 60 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

That door was closed.

But she was walking a different path now, one paved with love and unwavering devotion. A path she would walkwith him,hand in hand, never alone.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper as she pressed her palm over his heart. “I want our children to always know just how much we love each other… always.”

His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer, and when she tilted her head up, she found his gaze already waiting—soft, knowing, full of unspoken vows.

“I think they will,” he murmured. Then, more fiercely, as if the words were being carved into the very foundation of their love: “Not just them either. I want the world to know how much I love you. I want you tofeelit surrounding you, holding you. I want our kids to grow upknowingthat kind of love—never doubting it for a second.” His voice broke with intensity. “I would do anything for you, Jeannie. Just to see you smile. Just to hear your laugh. I never imagined how overwhelming this pull inside me would be and how much Ineedyour happiness. If you’re not happy, then I’m miserable. Idesperatelyneed you to be happy with me.”

Tears burned in her eyes, but they were not from sadness. They were from the sheer, breathtaking enormity of what they had—what they were building together.

“I’m overjoyed with you,” she promised, her voice thick with emotion. “With us.”

His hands framed her face, his touch reverent, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free.

“I love you,” she whispered.

His lips brushed over hers, a kiss as soft as a vow. “I will always love you—now and forever.”

And as he pulled her close, sealing them in the warmth of their love, she knew—with unwavering certainty—that forever had already begun the moment he grabbed that man’s wrist months ago, sparking that look between them where her soul recognized his.

Her angel.

EPILOGUE

“Oh,for heaven’s sake, Matthieu, why on earth am I staring at a pair of blue slacks and a red sports coat?” Jeannie’s voice carried both amusement and exasperation as she turned to her husband, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Across the bedroom, Matthieu simply shrugged, utterly unfazed. That maddeningly charming smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and his ocean-blue eyes twinkled with mischief. The same eyes that had once made her weak in the knees, the same ones she had looked into for the past twenty-five years, through laughter, through pain, through every beautifully chaotic moment of their life together.

“You can’t wear that,” she continued, stepping toward him and tugging at the offensive jacket as though her sheer will alone could erase it from existence. “Where did you get this obscenely ugly thing? And nobody wears a red sports coat—” She paused, narrowing her gaze as he bit his lip, barely containing his laughter. “And why are you laughing at me?”

He didn’t answer, just let out a quiet chuckle, his face creasing at the corners, those laugh lines etched by yearsof shared jokes, whispered confessions in the dark, and the unshakable foundation they had built together.

Life had been good to them, but time still left its mark. She felt it in her bones sometimes, in the aching remnants of sleepless nights spent rocking colicky babies, in the stretch marks that traced the journey of motherhood across her skin, in the weight of a million small sacrifices that had shaped her into the woman she was now. Gone was the taut-skinned girl in her early twenties, full of reckless hope and naivety. In her place stood a woman who had birthed five children, kissed scraped knees, cheered from the stands at hockey matches, and packed endless lunch bags. A woman whose body had softened, whose hands had wrung out worry and love in equal measure.

“What are you thinking?” Matthieu asked gently, his voice pulling her from the depths of her thoughts. His hands found her waist, warm and steady, the same way they always had.

She let out a breathy chuckle, shaking her head as she slid the ridiculous jacket off his shoulders. “I never could hide anything from you.”

“Nope,” he said, his lips quirking up. “And?”

“And… I’m getting old.”

“Thankfully, I’m getting naked,” he teased, his fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt. “Shirt next, or should we just take off these trousers?”

She scoffed, swatting at his chest with a laugh. “Matthieu. Our son is starting tonight for the Maple Leafs?—”

“Shh—” he hushed her dramatically, eyes wide with faux horror as he crossed himself and looked toward the ceiling. “We don’t say those words in this house. Red and Blue—Wolverines—Gooo Wolverines,” he chanted under his breath, his hands clasped together in mock prayer. “Forgive her, Lord. She knows not what she says.”

She gasped, laughing as she smacked his arm. “You are terrible!”

He yelped in exaggerated betrayal, then—before she could react—he unbuckled his belt in record time, letting his trousers fall to the floor with a grin that was entirely too pleased with itself.

“Matthieu!”

“What?!” he laughed, stepping toward her, wrapping his arms around her, his warmth seeping into her like it always had. “We’re not old.”

“I feel old.”

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