Page 303 of Wild Card 13

No Frosthawks crest.

No numbers.

No arena lights.

For one day, nobody belonged to the team first.

I stood with Lo, Micah, and Freya, navy fabric whispering around my legs, my bouquet steady in both hands. Across the aisle, the groomsmen stood in black tuxes, Oliver composed, Zee pretending not to look emotional, Bobby so serious with the rings that I worried he might demand a security detail.

And Buzz. He stood with his hands folded in front of him, shoulders broad beneath his tux, blond hair neater than usual but not enough to erase him. The sight of him there should have been unfair.

For one brief second, everything else softened around the edges.

Then he made the tiniest face toward Bobby, who was standing like a twelve-year-old secret service agent, and I almost laughed in the middle of a wedding processional.

I was grateful for that. For the way Buzz understood, somehow, that if he looked at me like the rooftop conversation was still burning through him, I might not survive the ceremony.

Then the music changed.

Everyone rose.

And Bea came in.

I could not pretend I remember every detail of that walk.

Some pieces of a life belong to the people living them most deeply.

I remember the room changing. The way the guests inhaled like one body. The ivory, candlelight, the long fall of her veil, the impossible grace of her hand resting near the curve of her belly.

I remember Alois. He had been standing like a man trying to be strong enough for the moment.

Then he saw her. And Alois Müller, who had taken hits that made entire arenas go silent, who had built a career out of being immovable, cried openly.

Not one dignified tear.

Not a controlled blink.

He broke.

His face shifted, his mouth trembled, and the tears came with such honest force that the entire room seemed to ache around him.

Bobby looked up at him, alarmed.

Oliver put one hand briefly on Alois’s shoulder.

Buzz bowed his head, smiling like he had to hide it.

And Bea saw Alois crying. Her face changed. Like some part of her had been waiting her whole life to be loved by someone brave enough to be undone in public and not turn away from it.

The vows were traditional. There was something almost startling about that. After everything Bea and Alois had survived to stand there, after every sharp edge and impossible turn, they did not need to reinvent the language.

To have and to hold.

From this day forward.

For better, for worse.

Words said by countless people before them, and still, somehow, new in their mouths.