Rinkside Alchemy
A stunned silence fell. Even the arena music had cut out. Soren stared at me, his blue eyes wide, his face pale. I pressed on, the words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “I don’t care if you get traded tonight. I don’t care if you play for the damn Moon. Wherever you go, I want to go too. Or I’ll wait. I’ll wait right here.” I took a step closer, dropping my gloves, reaching for his hand. He didn’t pull away. “Marry me, *tesoro*. Make this real. For good.”
The silence stretched. One second. Two. The entire arena seemed to hold its breath. Soren looked at me, his eyes searching mine, seeing the raw fear, the desperate hope, the love I’d tried so hard to bury. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face, bright and genuine and blinding. He squeezed my hand.
“Yes,” he said, his voice clear and strong, echoing in the sudden, profound quiet. “Yes, Matt. Absolutely yes.”
The arena erupted. Not just cheers, but a deafening roar of pure, shocked joy. Hats rained down onto the ice. Our teammates, momentarily stunned, surged forward, engulfing us in a chaotic, back-slapping, tear-inducing mob of disbelief and celebration. Somewhere in the madness, I heard the faint, frantic chirping of a phone – probably Margo having an aneurysm. I didn’t care.
Later, much later, after the media storm, after the surreal press conference where Soren confirmed he hadn’t been traded – the rumors had been just that, fueled by speculation and the Maulers’ front office playing their cards close – after the champagne in the locker room that tasted like relief and forever, we found ourselves back on my balcony. The Minneapolis skyline glittered, cold and bright. Soren wore my too-big sweatpants and one of my old Maulers tees. My engagement ring – a simple platinum band we’d chosen together that afternoon, post-championship-level media circus – gleamed softly on his finger.
He leaned back against my chest, my arms wrapped around him, his head resting under my chin. The scent of his shampoo, clean and oceanic, mingled with the cold night air. Down below, the city hummed its constant song.
“Crazy bastard,” Soren murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his fingers mapping the knuckles of my hand resting on his chest. “Center ice, Rossi? Really?”
I pressed a kiss into his hair. “Go big or go home, *capitano*.” The old nickname felt different now. Lighter. Real.
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated against me. “Home sounds pretty damn good.” He tilted his head back, his blue eyes finding mine, filled with a future I was no longer afraid of. “Wherever that ends up being.”
I tightened my hold, the simple truth settling deep in my bones, warm and solid. “Yeah,” I breathed, watching our reflection in the dark glass of the balcony door – not the fighter and the captain, not the enforcer and the golden boy, but just us. Gianluca and Soren. “Home.” The alchemy was complete.