“I’m just glad you let us choose our own dresses,” Trishelle says to me, smoothing down the front of her lavender bridesmaids dress. I gave them— Trishelle, two of my cousins, and Tyson’s sisters-in-law, Ashlynn and Astrid, are all wearing lavender dresses, but they’re all slightly different. The idea of forcing my friends into outfits I chose isn’t really my thing, so I just gave them a color and told them to buy whatever dress they want. They all look gorgeous, and the slight variations in the lavender fabrics means when they stand together they look less like a girl band and more like a bouquet of flowers.

“Speak for yourself. I went through like twenty dresses before I found one that fit right,” Ashlynn— Sebastian’s wife— says. “Fitting anything over this is a nightmare.” She gestures to her belly. She’s actually only a few months pregnant, but has already reached the stage where total strangers feel comfortable commenting that she’s “about to pop”. Three people at the wedding reception have said it already. I’m pretty sure that the fourth person who says it is actually going to get popped— with the back of her hand.

Despite getting engaged the same day as my college graduation, Tyson and I’s wedding was a long while coming. First were the logistics; Tyson didn’t go pro as a player, but as a businessman and recruiting consultant.

It meant we had a generous budget, but also meant we had to schedule everything around football season— especially since Sebastian and Carson’s pro contracts were renewed. I’d never in a million years have thought football would have such a profound impact on my life, but one glance around the room proves it true— the place is packed with teammates, hulking guys whose suits were surely custom made, and the groom’s cake is in the shape a football field, complete with marzipan players ready for the snap. It’s ridiculous. I love it.

The second reason the wedding was so long coming? Tyson’s parents. Dennis Slate is in jail, and from the looks of it, will be for a long while. Tyson’s mother was furious with all three of her sons for “abandoning” their dad, and refused to speak to any of them for over a year.

Tyson was the one that finally broke the ice, driving all three of them to her house and reminding her that they were still her sons, and they weren’t going to abandon her— no matter how angry she was with them. Mrs. Slate still looked worried and tiny, like she doesn’t know how to exist in a world without her tall, strong husband by her side, but she’s here, and she’s smiling, and she even helped us with a little of the planning.

It’s not perfect— but then, nothing is.

“I thought you were throwing the bouquet next,” Tyson says, stepping up to the cloister of bridesmaids around me.

“She is. We’re just trying to convince her to hand it to me straight away,” Trishelle says. Tyson rolls his eyes at her good-naturedly.

“Are you really not doing the garter?” Carson says, walking up behind his brother. He looks genuinely offended, and also like he thinks he might be able to convince us to put the garter toss back in right here, right now.

“Just because I like to kiss my wife in public doesn’t meant I want to undress her in public. Especially not in front of my family,” Tyson says, shoving his brother playfully. The word hums in my hears— wife. I’m his wife. He’s my husband. We made it. Carson and Tyson pretend to scuffle for a moment; Carson eventually gets Tyson in a headlock.

“This is why you don’t mess with your older brother, Ty,” Carson says.

“That’s it. I’m telling the team to trade you,” Tyson says from the headlock. Carson laughs and releases him, and I grin, then look over to Trishelle.

“Hey— you’re right. It oughta go straight to you,” I tell her, and she squeals in delight as I hand the bouquet to her. I then step forward to adjust Tyson’s tie, even though it barely needs it— I just want an excuse to touch him.

“How’s your night going, Anna Slate?” he asks, gazing down at me.

I look up, then stand on my tip toes to kiss him. “I’d give it an eight.”

“Only an eight?” Tyson asks, looking surprised. “Is this because we didn’t get those swans your mom wanted? I just don’t understand why we need swans waddling around the entryway. Swans are mean ass birds.”

I laugh loudly, and Tyson’s face lights up at the sound, like my laugh is oxygen in his lungs. “No,” I say, composing myself. “Only an eight because it’s not over yet. Tonight…tonight, after the wedding, that’s your chance to take it to a ten.”

Tyson growls deep in his throat, then kisses me deeply. “Believe me, I intend to. Tonight you’re all mine, Anna.”

I kiss him back and bite my lip, already looking forward to whatever he has in store. “I’ve been yours since I met you, Tyson Slate.”