The first time the guys almost found out about you and Mitch, it was entirely his fault.

You had warned him about it a hundred times.

Not because you were ashamed of him, and not because he was ashamed of you, but because dating one of the players while working with the medical and performance staff was complicated enough without giving the entire Toronto Maple Leafs locker room a live show to dissect for the next three months. The relationship had started carefully, quietly, almost accidentally. Late-night rehab sessions after extra skating. His usual dramatic complaining when you worked on his hips. You rolling your eyes when he insisted he was “basically dying” because you made him stretch properly. Then coffee after practice turned into dinner. Dinner turned into him walking you to your car and lingering too long. Lingering too long turned into a kiss that ruined every professional boundary you had tried so hard to maintain.

Now, months later, you were sitting at a long table during a team dinner, surrounded by players, staff, wives, girlfriends, and enough loud laughter to cover almost anything.

Almost.

You were seated beside Mitch because, according to him, “it would be weird if I avoided you too much,” which was a hilarious thing to say considering the man had spent the last forty minutes brushing his knee against yours under the table like a teenager with no self-control. To everyone else, he looked perfectly normal. Smiling, chirping Auston, arguing with Willy about something pointless, leaning back in his chair with that easy, boyish expression that made him seem innocent.

He was not innocent, his hand slid under the table and landed warm and deliberate on your thigh.

You froze.

Mitch did not even look at you. He kept talking across the table like he was doing absolutely nothing wrong, like his thumb was not slowly brushing back and forth over the fabric of your dress, like he did not know exactly how badly your brain had short-circuited.

You reached for your glass of water, hoping the cold sip would give you something to focus on.

That was when his hand squeezed, you choked, not a subtle little cough. Not a graceful, delicate clearing of the throat. You fully choked on your water, coughing so hard that Morgan, sitting across from you, immediately leaned forward with wide eyes.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded too quickly, pressing your napkin to your mouth while your face burned hotter than the overhead lights. “Yeah. Sorry. Went down the wrong way.”

Beside you, Mitch was biting the inside of his cheek so hard you were surprised he was not bleeding, Auston narrowed his eyes at him. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are absolutely smiling.”

“I’m concerned,” Mitch said, placing a hand over his chest like he was personally offended. “She almost died.” You kicked him under the table, his smile twitched, Willy leaned back, eyes bouncing between the two of you with dangerous amusement. “Interesting.”

“Nothing is interesting,” you said quickly, “That was a very fast answer,” Morgan pointed out, Mitch finally turned his head toward you, eyes bright and wicked. “You sure you’re okay?”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Perfect.”

“Need me to call medical?”

“You are one second away from needing medical.” That made him laugh, loud enough that a few people looked over, and you had to hide your own smile behind your napkin because it was impossible not to. That was the worst part about Mitch. Even when he was being insufferable, even when he was testing every secret you were both trying to keep, he made it almost impossible to stay mad.

Later, when everyone was distracted and the table had dissolved into different conversations, he leaned close enough that his voice brushed your ear “You’re cute when you panic.”

“You’re annoying when you breathe.” His grin softened, his fingers finding yours beneath the table for half a second before letting go. “You love me.”

You looked straight ahead, trying not to smile “I really, really shouldn’t.”

“But you do.” You did, god help you, you really did.

The secret lasted longer than most people expected, mostly because nobody expected Mitch Marner to successfully keep anything quiet. He was too expressive, too affectionate, too unable to stop looking at you whenever you entered a room. You had gotten very good at pretending not to notice. At practice, you treated him like everyone else. You corrected his posture, handled his recovery work, checked in after blocked shots and awkward falls. You did your job.

But behind closed doors, he was all soft hands and tired smiles, pressing his face into your stomach after long road trips, mumbling about how much he missed you even if he had only been gone three days. He would show up at your apartment with takeout and some ridiculous excuse about needing to “review his mobility plan,” then fall asleep on your couch with his head in your lap while you ran your fingers through his hair.

It was a fragile little world and then, one night, a puck shattered right through it.

The game had been fast and ugly from the first period, all sharp hits and bad bounces. You were stationed near the tunnel with the rest of the medical staff, watching with professional focus even though your stomach always twisted a little more when Mitch was on the ice. You hated that part. You hated having to care about him quietly.

He was battling along the boards when the puck deflected upward, for one terrible second, everything slowed, the puck caught him high in the face, Mitch dropped immediately.

Your breath stopped.

The arena noise warped around you, the crowd reacting before your body did. Then training took over. The medical team moved, and you moved with them, your pulse pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. Mitch was on the ice, one glove pressed near his face, blood visible against the white of his jersey. He was awake. That was the first thing you registered. Awake, blinking, trying to sit up even though everyone around him was telling him not to move too quickly.

You could not touch him like his girlfrien, so you touched him like his physio, Calm. Controlled. Professional “Mitch,” one of the team doctors said, crouching beside him. “Stay with us. Can you tell me where you are?”

Mitch’s eyes shifted, unfocused for a second before landing somewhere near you. his face changed, even through the blood and swelling and confusion, he recognized you.

You kept your voice steady. “Hey. Don’t move too fast, okay?”

His lips parted. “Y/N?”

Your chest clenched, the doctor glanced at you briefly, but there was no time to question it. They helped him up carefully and guided him off the ice, one person on each side. The crowd clapped as he went down the tunnel, and every step felt too slow, too loud, too exposed.

In the medical room, everything became clinical, possible concussion. Facial laceration. Stitches needed. Pupils checked. Memory questions. Pain assessment. Blood cleaned away carefully while Mitch sat on the exam table looking pale and dazed. You stayed where you were needed, handing supplies, helping steady him when he swayed, forcing your hands not to shake.

He answered most questions correctly, though he was clearly rattled. The cut needed stitches, and once they administered local anesthetic, his whole demeanor shifted into something softer and looser. He was awake, but foggy from the shock, pain, and medication. Not fully out of it, but enough that his filter had apparently packed its bags and left the building.

“Where’s Y/N?” he mumbled, uou froze with gauze in your hand, the doctor looked over his shoulder. “She’s right here, Mitch" , he blinked slowly and turned his head toward you. “No, like… my Y/N.”

Morgan, who had hovered near the doorway after coming off the ice, went very still, Auston appeared behind him. “Your what?”

You closed your eyes for half a second, Mitch looked genuinely confused by the question. “My Y/N.”

The room went silent in that very specific way a room goes silent when everyone has collectively realized something they absolutely should not know, you stepped closer, lowering your voice. “Mitch.”

His expression softened the second he saw you properly. “There you are.”

“Oh my God,” Auston whispered, Morgan pointed at Mitch, then at you, then back at Mitch. “Wait.”

“No,” you said immediately, Willy appeared at the doorway because apparently hockey players could sense gossip the way sharks smelled blood. “What happened?”

Auston, looking delighted, said, “Mitch has a Y/N.” Willy’s face lit up. “I knew it.”

“You knew nothing,” you snapped.

“I knew everything.”

“You thought our equipment manager was dating a Pilates instructor because she liked his Instagram once.”

“That was different,” Willy said, waving you off. “This, I knew.” Mitch, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding around him, reached for your hand. You tried not to let him take it, but he looked so miserable and injured and sweet that your resolve lasted about two seconds. His fingers curled around yours.

“You’re mad,” he mumbled.

“I’m not mad.”

“You look mad.”

“I’m going to be mad later.” His brows pulled together. “Don’t be mad. Got hit in the face.”

“That does not give you permission to expose our relationship while concussed.” Morgan made a strangled sound. “Relationship?” You looked over your shoulder. “Nobody is talking right now.”

Auston raised both hands, grinning. “I’m not talking. I’m observing.”

“You’re smirking.”

“That’s how I observe.” The doctor, who was trying very hard to pretend this was normal workplace behavior, cleared his throat and continued checking Mitch’s responses. Mitch answered the next few questions, but every time anyone moved you even slightly out of his line of sight, he got restless.

“Where’d she go?”

“I’m still here,” you said.

“Don’t leave.” Your heart softened despite everything.

“I’m not leaving.” He nodded, satisfied, then looked toward the doorway with glassy seriousness. “She’s my girl.”

Morgan dropped his head into his hand, Auston muttered, “This is the best day of my life.”

“You are all leaving,” you said, Willy leaned against the doorframe. “Absolutely not.” The doctor finally turned around and gave them a look that only medical professionals could truly master. “Out.”

They went, but not quietly “Mitch has a girlfriend,” Auston sing-songed down the hall “Mitch has a secret girlfriend,” Willy corrected.

Morgan added, “Mitch has a secret girlfriend who has been touching all of our hamstrings professionally.” You groaned, Mitch smiled lazily. “They like you.”

“I am going to lose my job.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, suddenly sounding offended. “You’re the best.”

“You are heavily biased.”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed clumsily over your knuckles. “Because I love you.”

You went still, it was not the first time he had said it, not even close. But it was the first time he had said it in a medical room, with stitches being prepared, while half the team stood outside probably pressing their ears to the door.

Your throat tightened “I love you too,” you whispered, his eyes fluttered, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “Good.”

The stitches went fine. The concussion protocol became the priority afterward, as expected. He was not cleared to return, which made him pout like a child even though half his face was swollen and he could barely keep his eyes open. You stayed with him because he kept asking for you, and because once the secret was out, pretending felt pointless.

By the time he was allowed to go home under supervision, the team had fully transitioned from shock to absolute menace, Auston walked past him and patted his shoulder. “Need your girlfriend to carry your bag too, Romeo?”

Mitch glared with one eye half-swollen. “I’m injured.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love hurts.” Morgan shook his head at you. “I trusted you.”

“You trusted me?”

“You let me complain about my back for twenty minutes while secretly dating him.”

“That is literally my job.” Willy pointed at Mitch. “You owe me money.”

“For what?” Mitch asked “I bet myself this was happening.”

“That’s not how betting works.”

“It does when I win.”

Despite the chirping, despite the embarrassment, something shifted after that night. The secret was not public, not really, but the team knew. And somehow, instead of making things worse, it made everything easier. Mitch stopped pretending not to look for you after games. You stopped pretending you did not know exactly how he liked his recovery drinks mixed. The guys teased you both relentlessly, but they also protected the secret outside the room with a loyalty that surprised you.

a year passed, then came the trade.

Vegas.

The news hit like a bodycheck, even though you had both known it was a possibility. Hockey was brutal that way. One day, a city was home. The next, it was a memory you had to pack into boxes.

By then, you were five months pregnant.

That part was still mostly private too, though harder to hide with every passing week. Mitch had become unbearable about it in the sweetest way possible. He talked to your stomach when he thought you were asleep. He cried the first time he felt the baby kick. He had already bought three tiny jerseys and one absurd pair of baby sneakers you insisted were unnecessary because the baby would not be walking for a very long time.

When the trade became official, the locker room took it personally.

Not because Mitch was leaving, well, partly because Mitch was leaving.

But mostly because he was taking you with him “This is betrayal,” Auston announced, standing in front of Mitch’s stall with his arms crossed, Mitch, who was packing gear into a bag, looked up. “I got traded. I didn’t personally betray you.”

“You’re taking Y/N.”

“She is my girlfriend.” Morgan corrected from two stalls over, “Pregnant girlfriend.” Mitch’s expression softened immediately, the way it always did now when anyone mentioned the baby. “Yeah. Pregnant girlfriend.”

“That makes it worse,” Willy said. “You’re stealing our physio and our team baby.”

“Our baby?” you repeated from the doorway, the entire room turned, you had only come down to find Mitch, one hand resting absently against the curve of your stomach, but the reaction made you pause. Auston looked personally wounded. Morgan looked like he was trying not to smile. Willy pointed dramatically at your bump.

“Yes. Our baby.” Mitch stepped in front of you slightly, not because you needed protecting, but because his instincts had become ridiculous since the pregnancy started. “Absolutely not.”

Auston ignored him. “That baby has heard us complain for months. That baby knows our voices.”

“That baby probably knows your whining,” Mitch said, Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “So it’ll recognize leadership.”

Willy scoffed. “It’ll recognize style first.” you laughed, unable to help yourself. “You guys are insane.”

“We’re grieving,” Auston said “You’re making my trade about my girlfriend.”

“Our physio,” Morgan said, “My girlfriend,” Mitch repeated.

“Our friend,” Willy said, softer this time, and the teasing in the room eased into something warmer.

Your heart gave a painful little squeeze, you had spent so long worrying about crossing lines, about being judged, about becoming a problem inside a world that already came with enough pressure. But these men, loud and dramatic and emotionally constipated half the time, had folded you into their lives without making you ask. They had teased you. Protected you. Checked on you during the pregnancy when Mitch was on the road. Left ginger candies in your office after they found out about your nausea. Pretended not to notice when Mitch hovered like a panicked first-time father every time you stood up too quickly.

Now they were mad because you were leaving, funny mad, but still mad, Auston pointed at Mitch. “Vegas gets you. Fine. Whatever. But why do they get her?”

Mitch wrapped an arm carefully around your waist and kissed the side of your head, no hesitation, no secrecy anymore. “Because where I go, she goes.”

The room groaned loudly “Disgusting,” Willy said “Terrible,” Morgan agreed.

“Romantic nonsense,” Auston muttered, you leaned into Mitch, smiling as his hand settled over your belly. “You all know I’ll visit, right?”

“No,” Auston said. “Not enough.”

“We want shared custody,” Willy added, Mitch made a face. “Of my girlfriend?”

“Of the baby,” Morgan clarified.

“Also no.”

“Uncle rights,” Auston insisted, Mitch looked down at you. “We’re blocking all of them.”

“You cannot block uncles,” Willy said “They’re already making demands,” Mitch said, rubbing your bump like the baby might back him up. “This is why we’re moving.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed, later, after the jokes quieted and the room thinned, Mitch sat beside you in the empty lounge, one hand laced with yours and the other resting gently against your stomach. His thumb moved in slow circles, grounding himself as much as you.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. At the boyish face you loved, the man who had accidentally told an entire medical room you were his while half-sedated and bleeding, the father of your baby, the person who was terrified of change but trying to be brave for you “I’m okay,” you said.

His shoulders loosened “You?” you asked, he let out a breath, then nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s weird. Leaving. But…” He looked down at your belly, his expression turning impossibly tender. “As long as I have you two, I’m good.”

Your chest ached “You’re very sentimental for a man who exposed us because he got hit in the face with a puck.” he laughed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “I was injured.”

“You called me ‘my Y/N’ in front of Auston Matthews.”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“How?”

“I could’ve told them about the thigh thing.” You gasped and smacked his arm, Mitch laughed harder, pulling you carefully into him, one hand protective against your side as if even your playful annoyance deserved gentleness now. “Sorry, sorry.”

“You are impossible.”

“You love me.” You smiled, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I really, really do.” And this time, there was no table to hide under, no secret to keep, no room full of people you had to pretend for.

There was only Mitch, holding you like home was not a city or a team or a jersey, home was wherever the three of you went next.

—————

By the time you arrived in Vegas, you were officially too pregnant to pretend you were fine with everything.

You were not miserable. Not exactly. You were five months along, your bump was undeniable, and the baby had apparently decided that the best time to practice for a future hockey career was whenever you sat still for longer than ten minutes. You were tired, emotional, hungry at the strangest hours, and still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Toronto was no longer home.

Mitch, of course, had taken all of this as his personal mission, he had become unbearable. Sweet, but unbearable.

He refused to let you lift anything heavier than your purse. He had argued with you for five full minutes at the airport because you tried to carry your own water bottle and backpack. A backpack. Not even a suitcase. A backpack.

“Mitch,” you had said, standing in the middle of the arrivals area while he gathered every bag like a panicked bellhop, “I am pregnant, not made of glass.”

“You’re carrying my child,” he said, horrified that you would even suggest doing something independently. “You don’t carry bags too.”

“That is not how pregnancy works.”

“That’s how my pregnancy works.” You stared at him, he blinked, then corrected himself. “Our pregnancy.”

“That is also not how pregnancy works.” He only kissed your forehead and guided you toward the car waiting outside like he had personally been assigned by the universe to prevent you from experiencing even mild inconvenience.

The Vegas heat hit you the second the doors slid open, you stopped dead “Oh, absolutely not.” Mitch looked over at you, already concerned. “What?”

“This city is an oven.”

“It’s dry heat.” You gave him a flat look. “You say that like it makes it less rude.” He immediately turned to the driver. “Can we get the AC going?”

“It’s already on, sir.”

“Higher?”

“Mitch,” you muttered, he helped you into the car anyway, one hand hovering near your back and the other resting on the top of the doorframe so you would not hit your head. It would have been annoying if he did not look so genuinely focused, like getting you safely into a vehicle was the most important play of his entire career.

Once you were settled, he crouched slightly outside the open door and looked at you “You okay?” You softened. “Yeah. Just hot.”

“Hungry?”

“A little.”

“Tired?”

“Yes.”

“Nauseous?”

“No.”

“Baby moving?” You smiled despite yourself and took his hand, placing it over the small but firm curve of your stomach. “A bit.”

His whole face changed, it always did.

No matter how many times he felt it, no matter how tiny or subtle the movement was, Mitch reacted like the baby had personally reached out and chosen him. His mouth parted, his eyes went glassy, and for one quiet second, the chaos of moving, the trade, the new city, the new team, the unfamiliar future — all of it disappeared.

“There they are,” he whispered, your chest squeezed, then the baby kicked harder, right under his palm, Mitch’s eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

“You say that every time.”

“Because every time is insane.” You laughed softly. “You play in front of twenty thousand people for a living.”

“Yeah, and none of them kick me from inside my girlfriend.”

“That would be concerning.” He grinned, leaned in, and kissed your bump quickly before standing. “Okay. Hotel, food, nap.”

“You have a plan?”

“I have seven plans.”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be. One of them involves soup.”

“In this heat?”

“You like soup.”

“I liked soup in Toronto.” he looked genuinely betrayed. “The baby liked soup.”

“The baby liked saltines and cried during a bank commercial last week.”

“That was you.” You pointed at your stomach. “We are a team now. You can’t prove anything.”

He laughed, finally getting into the car beside you, but even after he buckled in, his hand found your thigh like it always did. This time there was no table hiding it. No secret. No team dinner. Just the two of you in a new city, his thumb brushing gently over your knee while Vegas flashed past the windows.

The Golden Knights facility was waiting two days later,you were nervous, you hated admitting it, but you were.

Toronto had been complicated, yes, but it had also been familiar. The staff knew you. The players trusted you. The rhythm of the rink had become second nature. Vegas was different. New people. New expectations. New dynamics. And even though your contract had already been negotiated carefully, even though everyone knew you were not starting immediately, you still felt the strange pressure of walking into a workplace you technically belonged to but would not truly join for months.

The contract was clear: you would start officially when the baby turned seven months old.

Not before, it had been a non-negotiable point for Mitch.

Actually, that was not true, it had been a non-negotiable point for you first, and Mitch had backed it with the kind of intensity that made his agent go quiet on the phone.

You wanted time. Real time. Time to finish the pregnancy without living out of treatment rooms and airports. Time to have the baby, recover, heal, learn your child, and not rush back into a demanding job because hockey never stopped moving. You loved your work. You were good at it. But you also knew what the job asked of people, and you refused to pretend you could give everything to a team while your body and your baby needed you more.

So Vegas agreed.

You would be part of the medical and performance staff officially, but your start date would be delayed until seven months after the baby was born. Until then, you were Mitch’s partner, the very pregnant woman trying to build a nursery in a rental house, and apparently the newest subject of curiosity for an entire NHL locker room.

“You don’t have to come in today,” Mitch said for the fifth time that morning, you were standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide if the dress you were wearing made you look professional or like you had given up and chosen fabric with mercy “I know.”

“You can stay home.”

“I know.”

“Or I can tell them you’re tired.”

“Mitch.” He appeared behind you in the mirror, already dressed in team gear, his hair still damp from the shower. His hands slid carefully around your waist, settling on your bump like they belonged there “I’m just saying,” he murmured into your shoulder, “you don’t owe anyone anything.”

You met his eyes in the reflection, that was what got you.

Not the protectiveness, not the hovering, not the ridiculous way he had started narrating stairs like they were dangerous terrain. It was that beneath all of it, Mitch understood. He knew you were nervous. He knew this was not just a casual visit. He knew you were walking into a room full of people who had signed him and, by extension, had inherited you and your baby and the complicated story that came with both “I want to meet them,” you said quietly.

His expression softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m just… not working yet. I don’t want it to be weird.”

“It won’t be weird.”

“You say that, but hockey players are some of the weirdest people alive.” He smiled. “Fair.”

“And your old teammates accused you of stealing me from them.”

“They’re dramatic.”

“You cried when Auston gave the baby a tiny Leafs onesie before we left.”

“I had allergies.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘our child will know where they came from" Mitch pressed his lips together. “Still allergies.”

You laughed, and he grinned like making you laugh was the best thing he had done all day, at the facility, the first thing you noticed was how bright everything felt. The sun outside, the clean walls, the sharp colors, the unfamiliar hallways. Mitch walked beside you with one hand resting lightly at your lower back, not pushing, not steering, just there. A silent reminder that you were not walking into this alone.

The second thing you noticed was that everyone already knew who you were, not in a bad way, in a terrifying way.

The moment Mitch brought you toward the player area, several heads turned. One guy elbowed another. Someone smiled too quickly. Someone else whispered, “That’s her,” with the subtlety of a child in a grocery store.

You looked up at Mitch. “They’re staring.”

“They’re not.”

“They absolutely are.” he glanced ahead, then narrowed his eyes at the room. “Stop staring.”

Half the players immediately looked away, you sighed. “Very smooth.”

A voice called from across the room, amused. “You must be Y/N.”, you turned as a few of the guys came over, friendly and curious, their attention bouncing between you, Mitch, and your bump. Introductions happened quickly. Names, handshakes, smiles, polite congratulations. You were used to hockey players being loud, but there was a specific kind of excitement here, like they had been given the missing half of the trade package and were trying very hard to behave normally about it.

One of them looked at Mitch and said, “So this is why Toronto is mad at us.”

Mitch groaned. “Not here too.” another player grinned. “We heard we stole their physio.”

“You did not steal me,” you said, smiling “Not yet,” Mitch added quickly. “She doesn’t start until after the baby is seven months old.”

The room paused, that seemed to surprise them, pne of the older guys nodded with genuine approval. “Good.”

You blinked, he shrugged. “Seriously. Good. Take the time.”

Something in your chest loosened, another player leaned back against the stall and looked at Mitch. “So she’s just here as your girlfriend for now?”

“My pregnant girlfriend,” Mitch said immediately, like the title mattered, you looked at him. “You love saying that.”

“I do.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s accurate.” A few of the guys laughed, but there was no meanness in it. No awkwardness. No judgment. Just amusement at how completely gone Mitch Marner was.

Someone asked, “Do we get to know the due date, or is that classified?”

Mitch answered before you could. “Classified.”

“It is not classified,” you said “It is to them.”

“Mitch.”

He gave the room a suspicious look. “Toronto already tried to claim uncle rights. We need boundaries" one of the Vegas guys lifted both hands. “Whoa, we haven’t even started demanding uncle rights yet.”

“Yet,” Mitch said, you covered your face. “I cannot take you anywhere.”

But secretly, you were relieved.

Because they were kind. They asked how you were feeling without being invasive. They congratulated you without making your pregnancy feel like the only thing about you. A couple of them asked about your work, and when you explained that you would join the staff later, after maternity leave and those first months with the baby, they listened like that made perfect sense.

Nobody made you feel guilty, nobody treated the delay like a problem, nobody looked at Mitch like he had brought baggage with him.

He had brought a family and they seemed to understand that.

After the introductions, Mitch gave you a small tour. He showed you the locker room, the training areas, the staff offices you would eventually work near, though he kept reminding you that eventually did not mean now “This is where you’ll probably be,” he said, pointing toward one of the rooms.

You peered inside, taking in the treatment tables, equipment, storage shelves, the familiar smell of tape and disinfectant that somehow existed in every rink in the world.

Your fingers brushed your bump.

Eventually, not now, for now, your whole life was changing shape, Mitch noticed your silence immediately“You okay?”

You nodded, but your eyes stung unexpectedly. “Yeah.” His face softened with concern. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, because crying at your future workplace on the first visit was not exactly the impression you wanted to leave, Mitch stepped closer anyway, lowering his voice. “Talk to me.”

You swallowed. “It just feels real.” He looked around, then back at you. “Vegas?”

“All of it.” You let out a breath. “The move. The baby. The fact that I’m not working yet. That I’m going to be a mom before I’m officially anything here.”

His expression changed, the playful teasing slipping away entirely “You’re already something here,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him “You’re you. You’re not just here because of me. And you’re not less important because you’re taking time before starting.” His hand rested against your stomach, warm and steady. “You’re growing our baby. That’s not nothing.”

Your lips trembled. “Don’t be nice. I’ll cry.”

“I like when you cry.”

“You do not.”

“I mean, I hate when you’re sad,” he corrected quickly. “But when you cry because you love me or because the baby kicked or because a dog got adopted in a commercial, it’s kind of cute.”

You laughed through the emotion. “I should leave you.”

“You can’t. I carried all the luggage.” That made you laugh harder, and he smiled with relief before dipping his head to kiss your forehead.

Behind you, someone cleared their throat, you both turned.

Three players stood at the end of the hallway, pretending very badly that they had not witnessed the entire soft little moment, one of them pointed between you and Mitch. “Is this always happening?”

“Yes,” Mitch said “No,” you said at the same time.

The player nodded solemnly. “So yes.” Mitch did not even look embarrassed. He just slid an arm around your shoulders and tucked you carefully into his side.

Later, the team insisted on feeding you, that was how you ended up in the players’ lounge with a plate in front of you, Mitch hovering beside you like a guard dog with good hair. Every time someone offered you something, he looked at you first for approval. Water? He checked. Fruit? He checked. A chair with better back support? He practically sprinted across the room to get it.

One of the guys watched him with open fascination. “Was he like this in Toronto?” You took a bite of food. “Worse.”

Mitch frowned. “That’s not true.”

“You asked the hotel if they had pregnancy pillows available before we even checked in.”

“That’s called being prepared.”

“You packed three.”

“Different firmness levels.”

The room burst out laughing, Mitch pointed around defensively. “You’re all laughing now, but when she sleeps comfortably, I win.”

“You do not win,” you said. “You sleep on six inches of mattress because the pillows take up the whole bed.”

“Worth it.” And that was the thing about him. He meant it.

He meant every ridiculous, dramatic, overprotective thing. He meant it when he carried bags he did not need to carry. He meant it when he checked the temperature of every room. He meant it when he told the staff you were not starting until the baby was seven months old and said it with pride instead of apology. He meant it when he looked at you like you were not slowing him down or complicating his trade or making his transition harder.

You were the point, the baby was the point, everything else was just hockey. By the time you left the facility, you were exhausted, but lighter, Mitch noticed that too.

In the car, he reached over and took your hand. “That went okay?” You leaned your head back against the seat. “Yeah. They’re nice.”

“They liked you.”

“They liked the baby.”

“They liked both.” You smiled down at your stomach. “Your child is very popular for someone who hasn’t been born.”

“Our child,” he corrected softly, then brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.

You looked at him, at the desert light catching on his face, at the man who had been traded across the league and still somehow made you feel like the safest place in the world was wherever he was sitting.

“You’re happy here?” you asked, Mitch was quiet for a second, then he nodded “I think I can be,” he said. “I mean, I’m going to miss Toronto. I’m going to miss the guys. I’m going to miss everything we had there.” His thumb moved over your hand. “But I didn’t lose the important part.”

Your throat tightened “Mitch.” He looked at you. “What?”

“You’re going to make me cry again.” His face immediately shifted into panic. “Good cry or bad cry?” You laughed, wiping under one eye. “Pregnant cry.” He nodded seriously. “Right. Those are unpredictable.”

“You’re learning.”

“I’m trying.” He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your temple, then to your cheek, then, because he could never help himself, down toward your bump “Hey, baby,” he murmured. “Vegas is weird, but I think we’re gonna like it.”

The baby kicked, Mitch gasped, you smiled, resting your hand over his.

And for the first time since the trade, Vegas did not feel like the place that had taken you away from everything familiar.

It felt like the place where the next version of your life was waiting.

Not the rushed version. Not the secret version. Not the version where you had to hide under tables or behind professionalism or pretend your heart did not race every time Mitch Marner looked at you across a rink.

This version had sunlight, a nursery still in boxes, a contract waiting patiently for when you were ready, and Mitch’s hand steady over your belly like a promise.