My brain was slow. I mean, sure, we all knew that. A big crack to the coconut makes your head like the Hell Hole Swamp back home in South Carolina. We’d gone there once when I was a kid, maybe eight or so. Only once, because Brady had gotten it into his thick skull that he had to cross the swamp. Mom and Dad had stopped to look at some plant, and there went Brady, wading out into the muck until he was up to his armpits. Jamie and I had stood there, watching, laughing, considering wading out as well until Brady started freaking out because he was unable to slog his way through. There may have been water moccasins and alligators in that water, or so Dad had told us to keep us from going out into it. Kids really don’t listen for shit most of the time.

So yep, that was my brain. Mucky as the Hell Hole Swamp. Words kind of waded out and then got stuck, like Brady. That was the case right now. Mads down on a creaky knee, his blue eyes brimming with devotion, and a box with two platinum rings in it had gummed up my reasoning.

“Are you serious?” I finally pushed out because this wasn’t in the plan.

Not at all. The plan had been to live together, win the Cup, get married, travel, and grow old together. This was not the plan. The plan had been deviated from. Well, I mean the living together plan bit had been done successfully. So that kind of made the next step in the Tennant Rowe and Jared Madsen plan… fuck. Marriage. We were at the marriage stage. When had we gotten there? How? It felt as if just two days ago I’d laid eyes on Mads, on the ice, through the glass. I’d known right then that I desired him above all other men I’d ever wanted. That want grew after getting to know him again. It grew and changed, matured into affection and respect, and yes, lust. God, how we’d lusted. But amid all that wanting and growing and changing, we’d fallen in love. And now, there he was, staring at me in abject terror as I gaped down at him like a drooling fuckwit.

“Tennant? Are you having some kind of setback?” Mads asked, worry flowing off him.

I went down to one knee, mirroring him. “No, I’m good. I’m golden. I just… we did the whole thing right up to now, yeah? All of it, the good and the bad, we aced that… all that stuff, yeah?”

“Yes, we aced it all. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I smiled at him, at the concern in his voice, the fine lines around his eyes, the silver that was creeping in at his temples, which made him hot as double hell. I loved all of those things and more. His laugh, his frown, the way his reading glasses sat on his nose, the width of his shoulders, the girth of his cock. I loved him so damn much more.

“I’m golden, seriously.”

“Good, okay, so I hate to push you, but I have these rings, and my knee is about to seize up, and I really would like a reply.”

“Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, and yes, and like a hundred thousand infinite yes to the yes times a million!” I threw myself at him, arms around his neck, and rode him backward to the ice, my mouth sealed to his. He chuckled into the kiss, a warm snuffling sound that made me wiggle closer and kiss him with even more passion.

“No one can ever say you lack enthusiasm,” Mads chortled, his head resting on the ice for a moment before I slid to the side and he sat up. I brushed the sparkling bits of shaved ice from his thick gold hair. Then I pushed my fingers into the length of it and led his mouth back to mine. This kiss had heat blanketed in devotion. The sweep of his tongue over mine made me hard and breathless, as usual.

“Can I wear it?” I asked when we had to come up for air. “I’m not really up on how dudes do this. I mean… Jamie and Brady bought diamonds but…” I kissed him again because I had to.

“There are no set rules as far as I know. We can wear them as engagement rings or put them aside for the actual wedding day. What do you want to do?”

“I want the world to know you’re mine… if that’s cool?”

“It’s incredibly cool. I like the idea of all those Tennant Rowe fangirls knowing you’re officially off the market now.”

I held out my left hand, eager to see him slip the band onto my ring finger. His hand shook a little, so did mine. The smooth, warm ring slid over my knuckle, the fit perfect.

I plucked the larger one out of the box, peeked at him, smiled in return, and pushed the ring down over his finger, wiggling a bit to get it over knuckles permanently scarred and lumpy from fights and slashes from opposing players.

“That’s beautiful,” I murmured as I admired the ring – my ring – on his finger. “Oh my gosh!” A thought raced through my head. I pushed to my skates and then tugged my fiancé to his feet. Wow. We were affianced. I felt so grown up and giddy. Mads stopped brushing ice from the seat of his pants to glance at me. “Do not tell Ryker yet. He and Big J are coming…” Damn it. Take a breath. Let the excitement wane a bit. “They’re coming for New Year’s and Stan’s party, yeah?”

He nodded, his attention now on me fumble-bumbling around mentally.

“Cool. Don’t tell him, okay? I want to lay it on him. Bust his balls a bit.”

“Oh-kay, we’ll sit on it until he gets home.” He took my hand in his and lifted the heavy band to his lips. “But it’s going to be hard not to shout about it from the rooftops.”

I patted his cheek, his new whiskers rough on my palm. “Totes.”

Two days later we were getting ready for the big blow-out at Stan’s place. Russians love their New Year’s parties, and this year was supposed to be even bigger than last year’s. I wasn’t sure what Stan had up his sleeve, only that it involved an orchestra and the fact that he “knew peoples” so, yeah, I didn’t pry. My overactive imagination had oligarchs doing backflips across our goalie’s living room. I told Mads that, and he gave me his patented “Your mind worries me” look before going back to the book about home brewing he was browsing while sipping coffee.

When the front door flew open and Ryker’s shout filled the townhouse, I barreled out of the kitchen, dress shirt unbuttoned, tie in my back pocket, and gave the boys a wide grin. Man, Ry and Jacob were a gorgeous couple. They complemented each other so well, and it was obvious they loved each other.

“Dude,” Ryker replied, fist-bumping it out with me. Jacob and I shook hands, the farm boy’s grip strong, his fingers calloused. “You look good. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty righteous,” I replied, hearing Jared step up behind me, the creaky floorboard giving him away. We stood there watching the two of them peel off their coats. Both guys had worn suits, as had been requested by Stan, and they looked fucking amazing. I had to wonder if Tan France had decked them out. Jared slid an arm around my waist. “So, um, we have something to tell you.”

Ryker glanced up from something on his phone. Jacob, always the silent behemoth, gave us his undivided attention.

“What? Did Stan cancel the party? I’ll be royally pissed. You have any idea what it took to get this man into a suit? Or what I had to go through to let me buy him a new suit?” Ryker’s gaze flew from me to his father, then back to me.

“My old suit would have been fine,” Jacob commented from behind Ryker. “Waste of money to buy a new one that I’ll only ever wear once.”

“Your old suit was too small and too old,” Ryker tossed back, sliding his cell into the interior pocket of his gray suit jacket. “Hence the reason you needed a new one.”

Jacob opened his mouth to retaliate, but I slid in, all slick and shit.

“The party is not canceled so chill with the… suit worries. Ryker.” I dropped an arm around Ry’s shoulders. He snickered. “We have news for you.”

“Okay, so give me the news,” he said, his attention flicking steadily now from Jared to me.

“From now on, you have to call me Dad.” I held up my left hand to flash the band under his nose. Ryker, the poor stunned dolt, made like a goldfish for ten or so seconds and then punched me in the arm. “Dude, that’s like stepdad abuse.”

Ryker tried to say something, but it got all mashed up with hugs and hugs and even a few more hugs. Jacob got pulled into the embrace-a-thon. When the first round of congrats had been delivered, Jacob and I took their bags to the guest room to give Mads and Ryker some time to talk.

I finished dressing, wishing I had that new ink on my neck to cover the bright pink scar that stood out above my white dress shirt. Gatlin wanted clearance from my doctor that the wound was indeed fully healed. Maybe by Valentine’s Day, he had offered to placate me. Who knew tattoo artists could be so damn strict? When we all met in the kitchen, Mads and Ryker were talking about home brewing, but both men’s eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

“We good?” I asked as I fumbled with my tie.

“We’re incredibly good,” Mads said, gently pushing my fingers aside to neaten up the knot in my tie.

We shared a small kiss, gathered up the kids—I planned to bust Ryker’s chops forever with the kid stuff—and made our way to Stan’s big house. It looked as though we’d be making our big announcement to the team tonight. We’d had lots of practice. We’d told my family yesterday in a group call that went off the rails into emo-town for all involved. My mother had woken me that morning with an announcement that she’d made a Pinterest board for wedding ideas. Like, seriously? She had to ring me at five a.m. sharp to tell me about a board she was filling with wedding cake and flower arrangement ideas? I guess that was what parents did. I’d have to do that for Ryker just to see him lose his shit. I was going to rock this stepfather thing, just as I was going to rock the rehab. Right now though, we had to brace ourselves for this Russian suit-wearing party.

“Dude, if there are oligarchs there and we get jailed for collusion or some other espionage shit… and have to postpone the nuptials for twenty years, my mother is going to be pissed. Did you see how many pins she’s put in that… wedding board of hers?” I whispered to Mads as we walked up the snowy walk to Stan’s front door.

“Let’s hope we don’t end up in prison then. I’d hate to piss Jean Rowe off,” Mads replied and rang the doorbell. A dude I did not know opened the door. Tall, head full of blond curls, and the same chin as Erik, he smiled at us as if he knew us, and boy, was he enthusiastic.

“Hello! I’m Bjorn Johnson.” He pumped our hands strongly. “You don’t know me, but I’m Erik’s cousin. I’m a big fan of the Railers.”

That was a lot to process right away, but Bjorn had such a wide and welcoming smile that I immediately smiled back.

“Good to meet you,” I said, and repeated his name in my head so I would remember it. Bjorn. Like the guy in ABBA.

“I’m stoked to be here. I was in America for a skiing competition in Big Mountain and stopped by on the way home to celebrate New Year’s with him and Stan.” He let us in.

“They made you the official doorman?” Jared asked.

“Seems that way.”

Thankfully, we didn’t end up in a federal pen somewhere for sharing secrets with Russians. There had been this opera singer, some friend of a friend of Stan’s from the homeland, who had sung a song from Madame Butterfly that had left some of us hockey players slightly stunned and a little weepy. No one would admit that they’d teared up over some dumb opera song, so that went to the grave with us. They did hoot and holler and slap my back repeatedly when Mads and I made the big announcement.

It had been the best night.

Now, sitting in the desert, staring out of the window as I worked on strengthening my left side from brain to fingertips, I felt the tug of homesickness.

Midway through January and here I was still, working my ass off, alone, Declan having returned to his team two weeks ago. I missed him. He’d been someone my own age whom I could hang with, but he wanted to be back on the turf, the gridiron was in his blood like the ice was in mine. I did not fault the man. I was chomping at the bit myself.

Patience was hard to come by as my recovery sped along. Every day I’d ask the therapists and doctors when I was getting sprung. And every day they’d reply with something meant to inspire me to stick with the program. They cautioned against leaving early, which I could do at any time. This wasn’t a prison. There were no locks on the doors. But—and there was that big but—if I wanted to heal those pathways the brain bleed had destroyed, I needed to stay put and put the time in here. So I did. I put the time in and then some. I missed Mads, though, and the team, but mostly Mads. I sorely missed hockey despite glutting myself on Railers games, Raptors games, hell, any NHL game I could find, and streaming all the OU hockey games. There was a massive part of Tennant Rowe that was missing.

Dedication and hard work. That was what was needed to get that chunk of me back in place. So I worked. And I dedicated myself. And I sweat and cursed and threw things and laughed and cheered myself on because…

Because I had one hell of a wonderful life ahead with my soon-to-be husband. I was damn sure going to be one hundred percent healthy for the rest of our time spent as one whole instead of two halves. Like that old 80’s song that Mads liked to hum in the shower, our future was so bright we were breaking out the shades.