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Eight months later Katarina

“ U gh, can you please stop kicking my ribcage?” I mutter, rubbing a hand over the side of my belly like it’ll help negotiate with the tiny human using me as a punching bag. Beside me, Layla bursts out laughing. “I’m glad someone finds this hilarious.”

“Be nice to my future niece,” she coos to my stomach, leaning in like the baby can hear her clearly through all the layers of Cyclones team merch I’m buried in. “You keep going, kiddo. We’ve got big plans for you. Like learning how to throw elbows and dominate on skates.”

“Joke’s on you—Liam already bought her custom skates. She’s not even born yet and she’s got more gear than I do.”

A fresh round of cheers erupts from the rink, and I shift my weight just enough to catch Liam streaking across the ice. He’s fast, focused, locked in—completely in his element. And mine, somehow.

It still hits me sideways sometimes. How much has changed. How much he’s changed.

Eight months of him showing up—not in flashy, performative ways, but in the quiet ones that actually matter.

Holding my hair when I puked like a gremlin at 6 a.m., rubbing my lower back until I finally passed out, cooking crime-against-nature eggs and calling them “protein pancakes” with a straight face.

There’s been laughter, yelling, ridiculous cravings, a ruined couch, and more than one sex-induced charley horse.

But through it all? It’s him. Always him.

Now I’m rinkside in the Cyclones’ box seats, eight months pregnant, wrapped in Liam’s giant team jacket like a burrito, and definitely catching side-eyes every time I get up to yell.

“Let’s go, Liam!” I holler as the final buzzer sounds and the Cyclones close out a win over one of the top teams in the league.

The arena erupts. The roar of the crowd thrums through my chest—and so does my kid, apparently, because she gives a dramatic flip against my ribs.

I press a palm to the movement and grin. “That’s your dad out there, kid. Fingers crossed you get his skating genes and not my recent inability to walk in a straight line without needing a snack break.”

Another jab. Layla snorts beside me.

“Duly noted,” I mutter.

The Cyclones aren’t underdogs anymore. They’re contenders. Liam’s face is everywhere now—on banners, jerseys, cereal boxes, probably tattoos if I had to guess. But he’s not just the enforcer anymore. He’s the soul of this team. And somehow, he’s mine.

I move slowly through the crowd with Layla at my side, her hand braced on my back, mine resting protectively on my stomach. I know the routine by now—wait outside the locker room, lean against the wall, and let him find me like he always does.

The first wave of players filters out, all buzzed and sweaty and half-dressed. Aiden spots me immediately, towel slung around his neck, trademark smirk in place.

“Hey, Mama Novak,” he teases. “Or is it Steele now? You look like you’re about to pop in the hallway.”

“Don’t jinx me,” I deadpan. “I’ve got one week left and zero tolerance for hallway births.”

He laughs and strolls off, and then I see him.

Liam.

Hair damp and pushed back, Cyclones shirt clinging to him in all the unfair ways, cheeks flushed with that post-game glow he doesn’t even realize he’s got. He’s scanning the hall like he’s lost something—and when his eyes land on me, he lights up .

No hesitation. No swagger. Just pure, unfiltered joy as he closes the distance in three long strides and drops to his knees in front of me like he was built to.

“Hey,” he says softly, looking up at me like he still can’t believe I’m real.

“Hey,” I breathe, because how the hell do you respond to that kind of look?

His hands come up, gently cupping my belly. Not tentative—just careful , like he knows exactly who he’s touching. His forehead rests against the curve, and he closes his eyes. Like he’s listening. Or anchoring. Or maybe just catching his breath.

A camera clicks nearby. Then another. I don’t even flinch.

Tomorrow, there’ll be headlines. Cyclones’ Star right wing in Tender Moment with Pregnant Fiancée. Whatever.

Because this isn’t for them. This isn’t PR.

This is us.

Liam rises slowly, palms sliding around my waist like he’s grounding himself with every inch. His gaze hits mine—hot, sure, and so damn full I feel it all the way down to my toes.

“I love you,” he says. Low. Meant for no one else.

My throat tightens. “I know,” I whisper back. “I love you too.”

Then he kisses me.

Not a polite, camera-ready kiss. Not the kind we used to fake. This one’s deep. Familiar. A little clumsy. A little perfect. Like we’re still learning each other and already know everything all at once.

The baby kicks—hard—right between us, and we both laugh, foreheads pressed together.

“I think she’s ready to meet you,” I say softly.

“She better hold off,” he mutters. “I still haven’t finished putting together that death trap Griffin sent us. It’s got 140 screws and two Allen wrenches. I think it’s a test.”

“She’s got time. I don’t,” I groan, stretching my back as the press moves on and the hallway empties.

He takes my hand, kisses my knuckles, and grins like a man who still can’t believe he got this lucky.

“Let’s go home before she makes her debut in the parking lot.”

“You’re driving,” I warn, “and we’re stopping for pickles. And hot fudge.”

He nods solemnly. “Done. But if they’re out of the brand you like, I’m not above hopping the counter.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop smiling. We walk together down the hallway—slow, hand in hand—toward the kind of future we never planned but somehow got,anyway.

And damn, does it feel good.

The End