I’ve won championships before. Scored game-winning goals. Been named MVP. Nothing—nothing—has ever felt quite like this.

The weight of the captaincy sits on my shoulders like armor, not a burden. I was made for this role, to lead my team, to set the goddamn standard. Every reporter, every analyst, every washed-up ex-player with a microphone is talking about it. Rayne Collins. Captain Rayne Collins.

And yet, I know there’s something else waiting at the peak of this high.

She’s standing across from me, tapping at her phone, probably sending some snarky text to her group chat about how insufferable I am right now. I can’t even argue.

Truth is, I don’t like feeling this good alone. Never have. Never will. I was raised to win, but the victories feel hollow unless she’s right there, dragging me down by my tie, or—if I’m lucky—kissing the smirk off my face.

I need her to have this high with me. So I do what any self-respecting, newly-minted NHL captain with an ungodly amount of money would do: I plan the most ridiculous, over-the-top proposal imaginable.

Which is how we end up on a yacht off the Amalfi Coast, the sun sinking behind the cliffs, painting the sky in deep golds and blush pinks. She thinks this is just another one of my extravagant whims, a weekend getaway to celebrate my captaincy. She doesn’t even blink at the violinist playing some orchestral arrangement of a song that, if she were paying attention, she’d recognize from the first night I kissed her.

But I don’t give her the chance. Instead, I reach into my pocket and drop to one knee before she can process what’s happening.

The second she sees the ring—Cartier, custom, exactly the way I knew she’d want it.

“I’m riding the highest high of my life right now, but it doesn’t mean shit if you’re not up here with me. So I need you to say yes. Say yes, and I’ll make sure we never come down.”