Page 25

8 months later

Carter's tiny fingers wrap around mine. It's 3 AM, and I’m exhausted. But watching his little chest rise and fall, his lips pursed in concentration even in sleep, I feel more alive than I ever have. This love is different than anything I've known—it’s so completely consuming.

Carter's dark blue eyes flutter open. "Hey, little man," I whisper, careful not to wake Cyn, who's finally sleeping beside us. The bedside lamp casts a soft glow across our bedroom.

He squirms and makes that little noise, the precursor to a full-blown wail. I scoop him up before he starts, cradling him against my chest as I quickly pad out of the bedroom.

The nursery is just across the hall, but we haven't used it much yet. Neither of us wants him too far away.

"Daddy's got you," I murmur, rubbing his tiny back. My hand is so large compared to his little body. "Let's let Mommy sleep, okay? She's been on duty all day."

The living room is bathed in the city's glow through the windows. Four months in, and I still can't believe he's here. And I’m amazed how much my life has changed.

Carter arrived on a Tuesday morning in April after eighteen hours of labor. Cyn was a total rockstar through the whole thing. I thought I knew what strength was—I've played through broken ribs, taken hits that should have ended my career—but watching her bring our son into the world redefined everything I thought I knew about toughness.

"You're the size of a hockey puck," I tell him, settling into the recliner we bought specifically for these night feedings. "How can you possibly be so loud?"

He grunts in response, his face scrunching up in what Cyn calls his "old man expression." I reach for the bottle I prepped earlier, now at room temperature on the side table. He latches on immediately, his eyes fixed on my face.

Those first days home from the hospital were a blur. Neither of us knew what the hell we were doing. I remember Cyn sitting cross-legged on our bed, surrounded by baby books, crying because Carter wouldn't latch properly for breastfeeding. Then there was the panic when he had his first fever, the rush to the pediatrician that felt like the longest drive of my life.

“Your mommy and I are getting the hang of this though, aren’t we buddy?" I say, adjusting the bottle.

The team gave me two weeks off after he was born. Not nearly enough, but more than most guys get. Cyn is on maternity leave for another two months. We've fallen into a rhythm now—I take the night feedings, she handles the days. Sometimes her mom comes to stay and occasionally Sophie drops by to help out. It takes a village, as they say.

Carter's eyes are getting heavy again, milk drunk and content. A drop of formula slides down his chin, and I wipe it away with my thumb.

I never thought I'd have this. Then Cyn walked into my life, and everything changed. Now there's this tiny human who depends on us for everything, who's completely transformed our entire world.

I glance over at Oscar in his dog bed and see a familiar black shape curled up next to him. Shade opens her eyes briefly and gives me a lazy blink. Those two despised each other at first but now they are inseparable.

Carter has finished his bottle, and I shift him to my shoulder, patting his back gently. The burp he lets out is impressively loud for someone so small.

"Nice one, bud," I laugh.

I stand, swaying slightly, doing the bounce-walk that somehow became instinctive the moment he was placed in my arms. The city twinkles beyond the windows, and I stare out into the quiet night.

A floorboard creaks, and I turn to see Cyn leaning against the doorframe, watching us. Her hair is a nest of blonde tangles, her eyes heavy with sleep. She wears one of my t-shirts, massive on her frame.

"You didn't have to get up," I whisper.

"I know." She crosses to us, pressing her lips to Carter's head. "I missed you both."

My free arm wraps around her waist, pulling her close. She fits against me perfectly, her head tucked under my chin. Carter sighs between us, already drifting back to sleep.

"We should put him down," she murmurs, but neither of us move toward the bedroom.

"In a minute."

We stand there, the three of us, swaying slightly. In this moment, there's nothing more important to me—my son in my arms, my girl pressed against me, this wonderful fullness in my chest.

Later, when Carter's back in his bassinet, Cyn and I lie facing each other in the half-light. Her fingers trace the stubble on my jaw.

"I never thought it would be like this," she whispers.

"Like what?"

"Like...all-consuming. Terrifying. Incredible. The best thing I've ever done."

I take her hand, press my lips to her palm. "You're amazing with him."

"We're amazing with him," she corrects me.

"I love you," I tell her. "Both of you. So much it hurts sometimes."

She smiles, her eyes already drifting closed. "Mmm. I love you too."

Her breathing evens out, and I watch her sleep, while listening to Carter's soft snuffling breaths from his bassinet.

This is so much better than I ever dreamed it would be.

Later that day, I'm waiting outside the practice facility, Carter strapped to my chest in the carrier Cyn insists makes me look "devastatingly hot," when she bursts through the doors with a huge smile on her face. We’d stopped by because she needed to chat with Adam about a few things.

"There's my boys," she calls, jogging over to us. She kisses Carter's head first then stands on tiptoe to plant one on me.

"What's got you so chipper?" I ask as she takes Carter from me, covering his face with kisses while he gurgles happily.

"The wicked witch is gone," she sing-songs, bouncing our son gently.

"Marjorie?" I raise my eyebrows. "What happened?"

She links her arm through mine as we head toward the parking lot. "She finally messed with the wrong person."

Cyn explains how Marjorie cornered the newest physical therapist—a quiet girl fresh out of school—and berated her treatment protocols in front of an entire room of players. The girl stood her ground, explaining that her approach was supported by current research. Marjorie lost it, screaming about respect and chain of command.

"Then Adam stepped in," Cyn says, her eyes bright with satisfaction. "Told Marjorie that if she had issues with treatment protocols, she should address them in private, not undermine another therapist's authority with the players."

"Good for Adam," I say, helping her buckle Carter into his car seat. He's distracted by the dangling toys attached to the handle, batting at them with his chubby fists.

"It gets better." Cyn slides into the passenger seat beside me. "Marjorie stormed into Kessler's office to complain about Adam and the new girl. But it turns out the new girl is Kessler's niece."

I let out a low whistle. Kessler is the Blades' GM. "Marjorie didn't know?"

"Nope." Cyn pops the 'p', looking positively gleeful. "She was gone by the end of day. After twenty-one years with the team."

I start the car, thinking back to how things were with Marjorie around. The way Cyn would routinely come home tense and frowning. After George Corso gave our relationship his blessing, things were only worse with Marjorie. She was so pissed off that she was unable to get Cyn fired.

“Well, good riddance. I hope we never see her again,” I say, grinning from ear to ear.

"You know what else happened today?" Cyn turns in her seat to face me. "I found out who told Marjorie about us on the plane."

"Who?" I grip the steering wheel tighter, already guessing.

"Barnesy." She says his name like it's something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "Adam overheard him bragging to some of the younger guys about how he ‘got the hot PT in trouble' for 'banging the coach.'"

My jaw clenches. Barnesy—Nate Barnes—was talented but cocky, the kind of player who thinks scoring goals entitles him to be an asshole. I'd had words with him more than once regarding his comments about female staff.

"Well, he won't be a problem anymore either," I say, feeling a petty satisfaction. "He’s getting traded to Seattle next week. I just found out earlier today."

"That news is almost as good as Marjorie getting fired!"

"So, who's running the PT department now?" I ask, changing lanes.

"Adam." Her smile couldn't get any wider. "Kessler promoted him on the spot. He's already reorganizing everything. No more of Marjorie's rigid hierarchy, and no more outdated protocols that she refused to update. He's giving everyone more autonomy with their assigned players."

"That's great, babe." I reach over to squeeze her knee. "You deserve to work with people who appreciate you."

"It's not just that." She turns around and plays with Carter's tiny sock-covered feet, making him giggle. "Adam is on board with the whole work-life balance thing. He's already talking about more flexible hours for the PT staff."

I park the car, and she unbuckles her seatbelt and leans over to me. Her kiss is soft, lingering.

"It's just such a relief," she whispers against my lips. "I was starting to think I'd made a mistake, taking the job with the Blades. Even though it’s my dream job, some days it felt like it wasn't worth the stress."

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "And now?"

"Now?" She smiles, and it's the same smile that knocked me sideways the first time I saw it, bright and a little bit wicked. "Now I think we might actually get our happily ever after, coach."

Cyn stretches beside me on her yoga mat, completely unaware that my heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. Class has yet to start and she's talking about how her mom is probably spoiling Carter rotten right now, and I'm nodding like I'm listening.

"Earth to Garrett." Cyn waves her hand in front of my face. "Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Your mom is turning our son into a tiny tyrant," I parrot back, catching her hand and kissing her palm. "Sorry. Just thinking about a new play we’re working on."

She narrows her eyes, not entirely convinced. "You sure you're okay? You've been weird all morning."

"Just tired." I unroll my mat beside hers. "Carter had me up at four."

"He had us both up at four," she corrects, but she's smiling.

The studio fills with many of the regulars we see at most classes. We've been coming to this Saturday morning flow class for months now. It’s one of the very enjoyable regular routines we’ve slipped into as a couple.

"Five minutes till we start," she says, sitting cross-legged on her mat. "I'm going to close my eyes for a bit."

Perfect. I need a moment.

My hand drifts to my coat pocket, fingering the velvet box. I'd nearly proposed a dozen times over the past six months—after Carter was born, on Cyn’s birthday, on a random Tuesday when I found her dancing in the kitchen with our son. But something always held me back. Not doubt, never that. Just wanting the moment to be absolutely perfect.

The jeweler created exactly what I asked for—a simple platinum band adorned with delicate, shimmering diamonds with a single large emerald. I chose the emerald to match Cyn's eyes, yes, but also because she'd mentioned once how diamonds seemed like a waste when there were so many more interesting stones.

Last week, I was watching her in this very room, eyes closed in meditation, and it hit me. I decided this was where I wanted to ask her to be my wife.

I quickly take my coat off and place it near my mat just as the instructor calls us to attention. I force myself to focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Mountain pose, forward fold, plank, downward dog. My body goes through the motions while my mind races ahead to the end of class. All I can think is: this is it. This is the day I ask Cynthia Lockhart to be my wife.

Beside me, Cyn flows from one pose to the next, her movements fluid and strong. Four months post-baby, and she's reclaimed her body in a way that leaves me in awe. Not just physically—though watching her rock yoga pants will never get old—but in how she carries herself with newfound confidence.

"Warrior two," the instructor calls. I extend my arms, feeling the familiar stretch across my chest. Cyn catches my eye and winks, a small private gesture that still makes my heart skip a beat.

The class progresses, my anxiety building with each pose. I want it to be perfect. What if she wants something grander than a proposal in a yoga studio? What if I totally screwed this up?

"Lie on your back for savasana," the instructor finally says at the end of class.

This is it. We settle onto our backs, arms at our sides, eyes closed. The instructor dims the lights and starts her usual end-of-class spiel about releasing tension and being present in the moment. I wait, counting my breaths.

I turn my head slightly. Cyn's face is relaxed, her chest rising and falling steadily.

Carefully, I reach into my jacket pocket. The box makes the faintest sound as I extract it, and I freeze, but Cyn doesn't stir. With movements that would make a cat burglar proud, I roll slightly toward her and place the small velvet cube on her stomach, just above her navel.

Then I wait.

It feels like hours but is probably only a minute before the instructor's voice breaks the silence. "Slowly bring awareness back to your body. Wiggle your fingers and toes. When you're ready, open your eyes."

Cyn's fingers twitch. Her hand moves to stretch and brushes against the box. She frowns, eyes still closed, fingers exploring the foreign object. Her eyes snap open.

She turns her head toward me, confusion giving way to realization as she looks at the ring box.

"What—" she starts, her voice loud in the quiet room.

I roll onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow. "Open it," I whisper.

With trembling fingers, she lifts the box and flips the lid open.

I slide off my mat and onto one knee beside her. I'd planned what I was going to say, but my carefully rehearsed speech disappears at the sight of tears in her eyes.

"Cyn," I start, my voice rough with emotion.

She sits up, the ring box cradled in her palm like it might break.

"You have changed my life so much. You gave me a family I never thought I'd have." I take her free hand in mine. "I love you. I love the life we're building. I want to keep building it together. And to make you mine forever."

A tear spills down her cheek. "Garrett..."

"So," I squeeze her hand, surprising myself with how steady my voice is, "will you marry me?"

The studio is dead silent. Twenty people holding their breath, waiting.

Cyn looks at the ring, then at me, a smile breaking through her tears. "Yes," she says, and then louder, "Yes. Of course, yes."

The class erupts in applause and cheers. Someone in the back whistles. The instructor is wiping away tears of her own.

I take the ring from the box with shaking fingers and slide it onto Cyn's finger. It fits perfectly, the emerald glinting against her skin. We both stare at it for a moment, this symbol of promise.

"It matches your eyes," I say stupidly, overwhelmed by the reality that she said yes, that this amazing woman wants to be my wife.

She laughs, the sound choked with emotion, and then she's in my arms, her face pressed against my neck. "I love you," she whispers, just for me despite our audience. "I love you so much."

People are on their feet now, gathering around us with congratulations and exclamations over the ring. Cyn is radiant, glowing with happiness.

"How long have you been planning this?" she asks when we finally have a moment of relative privacy, the class dispersing.

"I’ve spent months trying to figure out how I wanted to do it," I admit. "I wanted it to be special."

"It was perfect." She cups my face in her hands, the ring cool against my cheek. "Absolutely perfect."

Later, walking hand in hand to the car, she can't stop looking at the emerald on her finger. "How did you know?" she asks. "That I'd prefer this to a diamond?"

"You mentioned it once. Said diamonds were overrated."

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at me in shock. "That was forever ago. Before Carter. Before we even moved in together."

I shrug. "I listen when you talk."

Her eyes fill with tears again. "Garrett Hughes," she says softly, "you are the most unexpected, wonderful thing that's ever happened to me. You and Carter both."

I pull her close, right there on the street, not caring who sees.

We drive home in a bubble of happiness, making plans, dreaming out loud. A small wedding, we agree. Soon. No point in waiting when we're already living as a family.

After parking, I cut the engine but make no move to get out. Cyn looks at me questioningly.

"What is it?"

"I just..." I take her hand, the one with the ring, marveling at how right it looks there. "I never thought I'd have this, you know? The partner, the baby, the whole package."

Her fingers brush against mine, and I feel the electric current that's run between us from the first day, that I know will run between us for the rest of our lives.

"Let's go get our son," she says, glowing with happiness. "I want to tell him his dad finally made an honest woman of his mom."

"He can't understand you," I jokingly remind her as we head inside.

She grins. "Doesn't matter. He's part of this. Part of us."

And she's right, of course. The three of us—soon to be officially, legally, permanently connected—we're a team. The best team I've ever been part of.

I follow her inside, my future wife, the mother of my son, thinking that for all the wins I've had on the ice, nothing compares to this victory: finding the one person who makes every part of life better, who challenges me, supports me, loves me exactly as I am, and somehow, miraculously, wants a forever with me too.

Are you ready for more Chicago Blades books? Check out Secret Pucking Play: A Brother’s Best Friend Hockey Romance

Keep reading on the next page for an exclusive preview of Secret Pucking Play , book 1 in the Chicago Blades series.