Page 51

The best decisions look different in retrospect. Less like risks and more like inevitabilities, as if the universe was always guiding you toward exactly where you belong.

I’m standing at the back of a garden that overlooks Puget Sound, wearing a dress that’s elegant but not fussy, surrounded by white flowers and soft music and the kind of perfect Seattle afternoon that makes you believe in meant-to-be.

My father adjusts his tie one more time, nervous energy that matches my own despite the certainty thrumming through my veins.

“Ready?” he asks, offering his arm.

“More than ready.”

At the other end of the aisle, Reed waits in a charcoal suit that doesn’t hide his tattoos, looking like exactly what he is: someone who’s learned the difference between hiding who you are and knowing when to show it. His smile when he sees me could rival the sun for pure radiance.

I walk toward him grinning so hard my cheeks hurt, taking in the faces of our chosen family.

Sarah, Emma, and Mia dabbing at their eyes despite claiming they don’t cry at weddings.

Some Outlaws, some Blizzards, but most of the Icehawks players in various stages of trying to look formal while maintaining their inherent hockey player energy.

When I reach him, Reed takes my hands and everything else fades to background noise.

“Hi,” he says softly. “You look incredible.”

“You are even more handsome than when we were in Vegas.”

The ceremony is perfect because it’s us—short on pomp, long on meaning. No lengthy readings or religious conventions we don’t connect with. Just two people making promises they intend to keep.

“Chelsea,” Reed says when it’s time for vows, his voice carrying just far enough for our small gathering to hear, “you made me want a life I never thought I deserved. You saw something in me worth building around, worth fighting for, worth becoming better for. I promise to choose you every day, to build something beautiful with you, to love you through victories and defeats and all the ordinary moments in between.”

My turn. I look into his blue eyes that are more familiar to me now than my own reflection and find the words I’ve been carrying in my heart.

“Reed, you made me believe I could have everything. Love and career, stability and adventure, safety and passion. You taught me that the right person doesn’t complete you, they give you permission to be complete on your own.

I promise to choose courage over fear, us over everything else, and to never stop believing in the life we’re building together. ”

“By the power vested in me by the state of Washington,” our officiant declares, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. The kiss is soft but sure, full of promise and possibility and the particular sweetness of choosing someone completely.

Around us, our people cheer and clap and probably take approximately seven hundred photos, but all I can focus on is the weight of his hands on my face and the ring on my finger that catches sunlight like captured happiness.

The reception flows seamlessly from ceremony. Tables arranged around the garden, string lights beginning to twinkle as afternoon fades toward evening. The food is incredible, the wine flows freely, and the toasts range from heartfelt to hilarious.

Mia goes first, managing to be both touching and slightly inappropriate in her assessment of our relationship journey.

“Chelsea used to think love was a distraction from success. Reed used to think success meant never showing weakness. Turns out they were both wrong and both right and watching them figure that out has been better than any romantic comedy Hollywood ever produced.”

The hockey players collectively deliver a toast that’s mostly chirping disguised as sentiment.

Weston says, “To Hendrix, who proved that angry hockey players can become decent human beings with the right motivation. And to Dr. Clark, who somehow saw potential in this disaster and decided it was worth saving.”

But it’s my father’s speech that shocks everyone into silence.

“I spent most of my life believing that love was a weakness,” he begins, voice steady but eyes bright.

“That caring too much about anything except winning was a liability. I nearly lost my daughter because I couldn’t understand that love—real love—makes you stronger, not weaker.

” He raises his glass toward us. “Chelsea and Reed, you’ve shown me what it looks like when two people choose to build something together instead of trying to fix each other.

Thank you for that lesson, for the inspiration.

And thank you for proving that sometimes the best victories happen off the ice. I love you both.”

I’m definitely crying now, makeup be damned. Reed squeezes my hand under the table, anchoring me to this moment, this happiness, this life we’ve chosen.

The evening continues with dancing and laughter and the particular joy that comes from celebrating something real with people who matter.

But as the night winds down and guests begin to head home, I find myself standing with Reed at the edge of the garden, looking out over the water and processing the magnitude of what just happened.

“So,” he says, arm around my waist, “how does it feel to be Mrs. Hendrix?”

“Like I’m finally home.”

“Good answer.”

“How does it feel to be permanently stuck with me?”

“Like winning the lottery.”

“Vegas turned out to be a good bet, didn’t it?”

We smile at each other in comfortable silence, watching city lights reflect on the water while our wedding reception continues behind us.

Tomorrow we’ll fly to Italy for our honeymoon—two weeks of wine and pasta and pretending the world exists beyond each other.

Next month we’ll return to hockey season and the beautiful chaos of professional sports.

Tonight, we’re just Chelsea and Reed, finally legally bound to the person who makes everything else make sense.

Six months later

“What do you think?” I ask, turning in the doorway of what will be our home office.

Reed surveys the empty room with the same focus he brings to reading opposing defenses. “I think it needs a desk. And maybe some walls that aren’t bare.”

“Very insightful analysis.”

“I’m full of insights.”

We’re standing in our new house—a 1920s craftsman in Queen Anne that’s equal parts charming and project. Hardwood floors that need refinishing, built-in bookcases that need filling, a kitchen that’s perfect for the kind of cooking experiments we’ve been attempting since moving in together.

The “SOLD” sign in the front yard still feels surreal. Our first house. Our first major purchase as married people. Our first step toward building something permanent in this city that’s become home.

“Think we’ll fill all these rooms someday?” Reed asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind.

“One room at a time,” I tell him, leaning back against his chest. “We’ve got time.”

“All the time in the world.”

“Is that a promise?”

“That’s a guarantee.”

I turn in his arms, studying his face in the afternoon light streaming through windows that need new curtains.

He looks older than when I first met him, not physically, but in the way that comes from growing into yourself.

Like someone who’s figured out the difference between what he wants and what he thinks he should want.

“I love you,” I tell him, because it’s true and because some things never get old.

“I love you too.”

He kisses me there in our empty house, surrounded by boxes and the particular satisfaction that comes from choosing someone over and over until it becomes as natural as breathing.

Behind us, the front door swings open—we forgot to lock it again, because we’re still learning the rhythms of homeownership—welcoming us into whatever comes next.

It was never just about the game. It was always about him. About us. About this.

And this?

This is everything.

I hope you enjoyed this book! Thank you for reading.