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AUGUSTE

NINE MONTHS LATER…

Overtime is slipping away.

Twenty seconds. That’s all we’ve got. My lungs burn, legs dead, heartbeat pounding like a war drum in my chest.

Boom, boom, boom…

Counting down the seconds between glory and defeat.

The puck ricochets along the boards. Bodies crash around me—the squeak of blades carving ice, the grunts of men fighting for breath, for glory, for the kind of ending that gets etched into history books.

Jayden catches my eye across the chaos. Doesn't even look at the puck—he just knows. Because this is the moment that endless hours of practice count.

It’s instinct.

He slings the puck across the ice in one fluid motion, the black disk spinning through the air, threading between defenders like it's found its own path.

It lands on my stick with a satisfying thwack. Like it was always meant to be there. Like this moment was written before I was born.

I don't think. I strike.

The puck ricochets off my stick and slices clean through the goalie's short-side.

I don’t know what comes first: the siren, the light or the roar of the crowd .

Twenty thousand people screaming my name, stomping their feet, the whole building trembling with their joy. The sound hits me like a physical force, pressing against my skin.

We did it.

The Comets just won the Stanley Cup.

I drop to my knees on the ice, the cold seeping through my pads. I tip my head back, arms spread wide like I'm trying to embrace the universe. The noise is deafening. The crowd, my teammates, our coaches, the confetti… all of it is a blur of movement and adrenaline and disbelief.

And in all of that there’s only one thing I’m looking for.

One person.

My eyes scan frantically, pushing past the sea of faces, the flashing lights, the reporters already swarming the ice.

Until there she is.

My gorgeous girl with her curls frizzy from the moisture in the air and her camera around her neck.

Standing just behind the bench, a big, goofy smile on her face. Her hands are pressed over her mouth, trembling. Those piercing blue eyes that have owned me since day one, are locked on me like I'm the only thing that matters in this circus of celebration.

Courtney.

My Courtney.

I don't care that they're calling my name to lift the Cup. I don't care that my teammates are charging toward me, helmets off, faces split with grins. I don't even hear them. Their voices fade to static as I push myself up, legs somehow finding strength I didn't know I had left.

I skate off the ice, each stride purposeful despite my exhaustion. Pulling my helmet and gloves off, I drop them with a clatter and walk straight to her. I don’t break eye contact for a second, afraid she might disappear if I look away.

“Auguste…” she barely gets my name out before I pull her into my arms and kiss her like we've been chasing this moment across lifetimes.

Court’s lips are soft, a stark contrast to my rough, bitten one, chapped from all the time on the ice. She tastes like mint gum and tears…

When did she start crying?

Her fingers dig into my jersey, twisting the sweat-soaked fabric, pulling me closer, grounding us both in this perfect, chaotic moment

"You did it, baby," she whispers against my lips, breathless and beautiful. Her eyes are wide, glittering with unshed tears. "Auguste, you really?— "

"No," I say, cupping her face in both hands. Court’s skin is warm under my calloused palms, as I correct her, " We did it. All of this? And none of it means anything if you're not in it with me."

Tears are welling in her eyes now, soft and shining under the arena lights. One spills over, tracking down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb.

"You have no idea how proud I am of you," she says, voice breaking on the last word.

I reach down, into the collar of my jersey and yank the thin gold chain with the heart tag she gave me and the ring I picked out for her off my neck. I don't take my eyes off her.

"You think that was the biggest moment of my life?" I ask, pointing my thumb over my shoulder. "It wasn’t."

I open my palm where the tag and the sapphire and diamond princess cut ring are nestled.

“Oh—” Court’s breath catches, a tiny gasp that I feel more than hear in the roaring chaos around us.

I drop to one knee and her hand flies to her chest, pressing against her heart like she's trying to keep it from escaping. "Auguste..."

I look up at her, this woman who crashed into my life and rearranged everything I thought I knew about myself. She made me a real man. Taught me the true meaning of unconditional love with her kindness and forgiveness, her empathy and belief.

" This , Courtney Elouise Nilsson, is the biggest moment of my life. You are the one thing I can’t live without. My soul belongs to yours."

Her hand is shaking when she reaches down to touch my face. Tears are falling freely now. So precious. So beautiful.

"So please," I say, holding the ring out. "Make me the happiest, most undeserving bastard alive. Marry me, Princess. Let me dance with you every day until we’re too old to move. Let me be your sun. The one that you rise to and the one to put you to bed. Marry me… please?"

She's sobbing. Laughing. Both at once, her whole body trembling with it.

"Jesus Christ," she whispers, shaking her head like she can't believe what she's about to say. "Yes. Yes, Auguste."

I slip the ring on her finger, watching it slide home. Where it belongs, the same way that I belong to her. That she is my home.

She's everything.

My win.

My legacy .

My forever.

ONE YEAR LATER

The deck of the yacht glows like a dream beneath the strands of soft, golden lights. The tartness of champagne hangs in the air along with the brine in the breeze.

With her hand in mine, everything else fades.

Courtney’s laugh is soft and breathy even before we dance. Her skin is flushed from our day in the sun. It’s been so perfect and she is a goddamn dream in that ivory satin dress from DC. The one I bought with every intention of tearing it off her.

Court looks every bit the sultry Princess with the off-shoulder puffy sleeves, flouncy and delicate in contrast to the sexy low back that just covers the seam of her ass. It clings to her like a promise and flows like a fucking fairytale.

My wife.

Mrs. Broussard.

God help me, she’s going to be the welcomed death of me.

I spin her into my chest, and the second her body brushes mine, the rest of the world stops existing.

“You ready, Mrs. Broussard?” I murmur, low enough that only she hears it.

The way her mouth curves at the edges, the way her lashes flicker—it guts me. I see the moment it hits her. The name. The reality.

She’s mine now.

She’s always been mine.

But now it’s sealed in every way the world recognizes.

“Been ready since you knocked me off my feet, baby,” she says, and the way she says it? It could bring me to my knees.

She’s looking at me like I’m everything. And I still don’t get how I got this lucky.

The music starts—soft, familiar, crooning. The same damn song we danced to the first night she met my family. And now here we are. Full circle. With them watching us lose ourselves to each other again

I pull Court into me, her cheek pressing to my chest. Her fingers rest just above my heart. The thrum of it syncing with hers, like it always does.

She smells like orchids and vanilla, and the kind of happiness that makes you believe in fate.

“You’re unreal,” I whisper, turning her in a slow, deliberate twirl, just to admire her all over again. “I’m never going to recover from this sight.”

She leans into me, teasing, “You’ll be fine. You’re tough.”

I grin. “I’m a puddle. You turned me into absolute mush.”

She laughs, and it’s the sound of everything right in this world.

I run my hands along her waist, the satin warm from her skin. Her body fits into mine like she was carved just for me. We sway, lost in the music, in each other.

Then I kiss her.

Soft at first. Just lips brushing lips. But then she sighs into it, and I lose my damn mind.

Somewhere in the background, our friends cheer. There’s laughter. Toasts. Clinking glasses. But none of it matters because…

Rain.

The lightest drizzle. Barely more than a mist, but it brushes her shoulders, settles in her tamed curls, turns her into something divine.

Court tilts her face to the sky and laughs again, teary and radiant.

“You remember what she said?” she whispers.

My arms tighten as I look upward too. “The fortune teller.”

“The sky will cry just a little.”

When I kiss her forehead, she giggles, and I continue to her cheeks, her lips.

“For joy. For fortune,” she murmurs into my mouth.

“This is both, Princess. And more.”

She smiles into my kiss, and I swear I see every version of our life ahead in her eyes.

The dancing.

The chaos.

The mornings with our babies on her chest an din our bed.

The years we’ll grow into and the memories we’ll make together.

“Forever, Masterchef,” she says.

My throat tightens. My soul aches in the best way.

“Forever, Princess.”

And we keep dancing—rain-kissed, married, together .

Just us.

Always.