Page 105 of Chasing The Goal
She lifts her left hand and admires the ring, catching the light with a proud smirk. “Fiancée privileges,” she corrects.
“Wife privileges,” I whisper, kissing her again. “Soon.”
Mallory
6 weeks later back in Vegas
The jet to Vegaswas ridiculous. Sleek black exterior, white leather seats that somehow still smelled like money and jet fuel. There was a mirrored bar stocked with champagne and energy drinks, and Bluetooth speakers blasting a curated playlist that alternated between hype anthems and the occasional boy band throwback. Because Logan had range, apparently.
He strutted aboard in aviators, a hoodie with his own number on the back, and a smug grin like he was born in a GQ spread.
“Go big or go home,” he declared, tossing a handful of mini vodka bottles onto the tray table like confetti. “And none of you are going home tonight.”
Ava rolled her eyes. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m a married menace,” he said, then turned and winked at me. “Soon you will be too.”
Jaymie squeezed my hand tighter at that, the kind of squeeze that said we’re doing this, for real. His thumb traced over my knuckles like he couldn’t quite believe I was still sitting beside him.
Dakota slipped into the seat across from us twenty minutes later, fresh off her connection from Burlington, eyes bleary but glowing. She dropped her duffel on the floor and stole the mimosa Logan tried to hand to Connor.
“I flew here on three hours of sleep and leftover airport sushi,” she said. “I deserve this.”
“You’re in a room with six Stanley Cup winners and a literal bride,” Ava said.
“I said what I said,” Dakota replied, deadpan.
The whole team had been buzzing the second word got out. Darren bought two boxes of cigars and passed them around like favors. stood on one of the armrests and gave a toast about loyalty and found family that made half the room laugh and the other half misty-eyed. One of the assistant coaches jokingly offered to officiate in exchange for free drinks in Vegas.
But Jaymie?
Hejust smiled quietly, leaned into me, and murmured, “I already booked the church.”
“The church?”
“The church,” he said. “Little white one off the strip. Demi Moore and Bruce Willis got married there.”
“That’s your pitch?”
“It felt right,” he said with a shrug. “Messy. Iconic. Weirdly us.”
And it was.
I’ve never been the kind of girl who dreamed about her wedding dress. No Pinterest boards. No binder full of tulle samples. I figured when the time came—if it came—it would be quiet. Maybe even courthouse-level casual. Something that felt like me, not a production. But then again, I also never thought I’d be marrying Jaymie Prescott in Las Vegas, with a baby on my hip and a Stanley Cup win under his belt. Turns out life’s got jokes. Big, messy, beautiful ones.
“You’re not allowed to cry until the lashes are on,” Ava warns, waving a mascara wand at me like a weapon. “Tears now are illegal.”
“She’s not even crying yet,” Dakota mutters, fluffing out the soft white satin of my dress. “You’re the one who cried at the nail salon when they brought us complimentary champagne.”
“Because I’m emotionally available,” Ava retorts. “And because we were celebrating love, Dakota.”
They’re both in my hotel room, standing in a sea of makeup brushes, garment bags, diaper wipes, and half-eaten room service pancakes. Lola is kicking in her bassinet near the window, cooing softly at the ceiling like she’s deeply impressed with her own existence. She’s wearing a white linen onesie with a baby-pink bow on her head. Jaymie cried when he saw her this morning.
I don’t blame him.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I whisper, smoothing my hands down my dress. It’s simple—off-the-shoulder, no train, no veil. But it fits like a dream. Like it knew where it was going all along.
Dakota grins. “You’re gonna be Mrs. Stanley Cup Champion.”
