There was babbling in her ear.

Or gurgling. It might have been a bit closer to gurgling.

"What?" Emma asked, bobbing on her feet slightly and tugging the small, gurgling bundle a bit closer to her chest. "What's the matter, baby?"

"She's probably freezing cold," Ruby muttered, shaking back and forth and the highlights in her hair almost matched the color of her nose and the flush in her cheeks. "Is this safe? Shouldn't you be in a suite somewhere? Shouldn't we both be in a suite somewhere? With heat? And hot toddies or something?"

"You think they're serving hot toddies at a hockey game?" Emma asked skeptically and Ruby shrugged.

"I don't know and I don't care, but they should. We should have made that a requirement when we agreed to do this thing."

"Ruby, you don't own the team. I don't think you're in charge of scheduling. Or Winter Classics. That's absolutely a league thing."

"Give me a couple more years and it will absolutely be a me thing," Ruby said and there was a promise in her voice that left little doubt for argument.

The mound of blankets and baby in Emma's arms made another noise – something that sounded dangerously close to a few moments away from a cry – and she shifted on her feet again, muttering nonsense against an impossibly small blue and white hat.

"C'mon, Peggy," Emma pleaded, rocking back on her heels and that was a mistake. The heel of her boot hit against a pile of snow she hadn't seen before and she could already feel the moisture creeping through the so-called impenetrable leather. "God damn," she muttered, drawing a chuckle out of Ruby.

Emma glared at her. "Shut up," she hissed and Ruby's grin turned a bit more confident. "You know we almost slept four straight last night. Didn't we, kid?"

There wasn't an answer from the three-month-old in her arms, just another gurgle that Margaret Jones should probably have patented at this point.

"Almost," Ruby repeated, taking a step forward and resting her hand on the top of the blankets Peggy was wrapped in. It really was freezing. And, maybe, starting to snow. "You causing problems for your parents, Pegs?" she asked, dragging a finger across fabric with hockey sticks all over it.

"Nah," Emma muttered, pressing a kiss to the top of Peggy's head. Or her hat. There wasn't really much baby to be seen, far too wrapped up in defense of the wind and the, possible, snow at Yankee Stadium.

Ruby rolled her eyes, the sentiment in Emma's voice nearly melting the goddamn ice in front of them, but there was some truth to it and maybe that was even more sentimental.

Her hormones were still all out of whack.

And she was absolutely exhausted.

They'd found out about a year after the repeat wedding, Emma waking up in just enough time to feel the world shift and flip and barely get out of bed and away from the pillows in just enough time to collapse on the bathroom floor.

It wasn't like they were trying, but it wasn't like they...weren't trying.

They were good at happy and family and her heart practically grew fifteen sizes every time Mattie screamed dad when Killian got home from road trips, sprinting out of bed or of the couch and giving him just enough time to drop his bag before leaping into his arms.

So, they hadn't really planned it, but they'd talked about, mumbled discussions in the middle of the night and after games and the back corner of the restaurant, a few moments on their own when Mattie started trailing after Roland with cries of teach me how to shoot on his lips.

"What if…" Emma whispered one night, resting her foot on the bottom of the stool Killian was perched on, a plate of half-eaten onion rings in between them.

He quirked an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly and Emma wondered when he'd started being able to just read her mind.

"What, Swan?"

"What if we had another kid?"

He nearly knocked the onion rings off the counter, dodging forward to push the plate back to safety and Emma mumbled athlete under her breath.

"Emma," Killian said slowly, the sound of her name lingering in the space between them. It sent a shockwave down her spine and butterflies in her stomach and neither of those things were the right kind of description for what she felt – wanted and needed and so goddamn loved, sometimes she couldn't think straight with the force of it.

She tried to smile encouragingly, shrugging slightly while taking a sip of her drink and Killian's eyes hadn't left hers, far too blue to be entirely fair.

"I mean," she muttered, leaning forward slightly to rest her hand on his knee. He pulled her fingers away before she could even hit the jeans, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing tightly, his thumb resting just underneath the ring she'd resolutely refused to ever take off.

"Yeah," he answered earnestly, nodding for good measure and the butterflies in her stomach were threatening to fly out of her mouth.

"Yeah?"

Killian nodded again and that space that had existed between them just a few moments before seemed to evaporate as quickly, his feet back on the floor as he took a step closer to her. Her knees hit his when his left hand landed on her hip.

She could hear Mattie and Roland shouting on the other side of the restaurant – the sound of chairs scraping across the floor a telltale sign they'd started building some kind of makeshift goal and Emma dimly wondered what they were going to use as a puck.

There wasn't much time to think about that when Killian started kissing her – lips finding hers with his hand still holding onto her hip like some kind of anchor.

There was no way to be sure how many times he'd kissed her. Or how often she'd kissed him – not far behind Mattie whenever Killian came back from road trips and his arm would snake its way around her back, pulling her tight against his side with a kid latched to his hip and his lips on hers.

The kid wasn't ever very impressed by any of that.

It made Emma smile just to think about it, the easy sense of security and indefinite that just seemed to exist now, an apartment that felt like a home and a, frankly, absurd amount of pillows in every room.

He still texted her as soon as he landed, updates on Scarlet's continued battle with turbulence, and Robin's tendency to steal the arm rest, and they'd started learning their own facts on road trips – a small contingent of what The Post referred to as next gen Rangerswhenever the front office decided they could travel.

"You're smiling," Killian muttered softly, lingering against her and Emma didn't remember standing up. Or slinging her arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him even closer to her in the back corner of the restaurant.

"I'm assuming that was some kind of yes."

"Some kind."

"We never really had a honeymoon," Emma said and Killian's eyes got a bit wider. "We could...you know…"

"Go on."

"We are in public, Jones."

"Ah, not really," Killian argued, tongue pressing into the corner of his lip and they had a kid. They had an entire hockey team in the same room as them. She still shouldn't want to grab him by the front of his league-mandated jacket and kiss him until he couldn't stand up.

She absolutely did.

"You keep trailing off, love," Killian laughed, dragging his hand down her side until the fabric of her jersey – his jersey, still and always and some kind of absurd emotional nonsense – clumped under his fingers. "One might assume that you're distracted, somehow."

"Yeah, well, you're good at making out in public places, I guess."

"You guess?"

Emma shrugged. "We've circled back to the honeymoon idea. Or, at least, the highpoints of a honeymoon. You'll get fined if you don't show up to games."

"We could afford the fine."

"Not with two kids."

Killian stuttered slightly at that and Emma silently congratulated herself on her ability to catch him by surprise. "Two," he repeated softly and Emma shrugged again.

"Half a line."

"It could be a girl."

It was a simple sentence, just a few words and they were still standing questionably close, hands moving without even really thinking about it, tracing out patterns against each other, but Emma could hear the meaning there and the want and Killian Jones, dad, might have been her favorite thing in the entire goddamn world.

Particularly when she was Emma Swan, mom.

"So, that's a yes, then?" she asked, hating the uncertainty that crept up in her voice. "We could, you know, maybe, try? Or not really try to be not trying? Does that make sense?"

Killian hummed in the back of his throat, pulling his hand up to trace his thumb across the chain she kept around her neck and the ring that had, at some point, worked its way over the front of her jersey.

"There were, at least, three double negatives in that sentence, Swan," he chuckled, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers.

"I think you kept up."

"Perceptive, that's why."

"Good. Wouldn't want to pass on anything less than perceptive to future generations."

A glass broke on the other side of the restaurant, Will shouting nice shot and Roland grumbled under his breath, a string of words he probably shouldn't even know.

"I think Mattie scored," Emma added, glancing over her shoulder at the scene behind her. Killian's eyes shifted away from her mouth, darting just above her head and the smirk turned into something close to pride, his shoulders rolling back slightly when he tried to turn her against his chest.

"Five hole," he said, nodding towards the lopsided chairs and what appeared to be a knotted up napkin sitting a few feet behind a still-furious Roland. "That was a good shot."

"See, genetics."

"You know," Killian mumbled, dragging his lips just behind her ear and Emma felt him laugh against her when he noticed the goosebumps he'd left in his wake. "We seem to be pretty good at this kid thing, Swan. Only seems right to keep going."

Her knees felt weak and Killian's hand tightened knowingly around her waist, pulling her back flush against his chest and she blushed at how breathless her response was. "Practical."

Killian kissed her again, teeth coming dangerously close to the skin of her neck and he'd barely moved his hand when a blur of blue and white and dark hair collided with both of them.

Mattie Jones – tiny hockey stick clutched tightly in one hand while he swung it at Killian's legs – was still not very impressed with his parents. Or their discussions about passing on hockey talent and an ability to understand the English language to another kid.

"Goal," Matt yelled and that might have been his favorite word in the English language. "Goal!"

"I'm surprised he hasn't just started singing the song," Emma said, running her hands across his forehead. He was still swinging the stick, the plastic hardly even making a noise against Killian's leg.

"Two minutes," Killian said, ducking low quickly and swinging a suddenly hysterical Mattie over his shoulder. Roland had run over at some point, shouting Hook, he cheated and Emma grinned in spite of herself, pulling on the back of the Jones jersey Mattie never seemed to take off.

They were really good at this.

So, they tried – or didn't stop themselves from trying and Margaret Elsa Jones was born just a few weeks before the Christmas break, announcing her arrival with a blizzard that forced the league to actually postpone games.

They called her Peggy and she was, in Emma's not so unbiased opinion, perfect. She'd be even better if she'd consider sleeping more than a few hours at a time.

They were getting there.

"How long are they supposed to be out there?" Ruby asked, jerking Emma back to the present and the snow and the hockey warmups happening in front of her.

They were hours early for the game – something front office kept referring to as family skate and Emma had to force herself not to actually roll her eyes at the Rangers inability to come up with a better name.

She and Ruby had started calling it wreck your emotions skate whenever they talked about it.

"I have no idea how long we're out here," Emma answered honestly. "Isn't that your thing? Got to let the photographers come and take pictures and be adorable?"

"There are no photographers here," Ruby said sharply and Emma made a face, widening her eyes meaningfully.

"Ruby Lucas, defender of the New York Rangers children."

"Just the ones I care about."

"You're totally Mattie's favorite."

Ruby's expression shifted, eyes lightening and jaw unclenching and she shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the entire world.

It kind of was – between Ruby and Killian, Emma wasn't sure who Mattie idolized more, trailing after both of them whenever they were at games. He followed them into the locker room, effectively claiming the bench in front of Killian's as his own during his very first season opener and the entire goddamn team was ready to do his bidding at the first sign of want.

But Ruby and Killian were different.

Emma wasn't sure how it worked, some sort of unspoken agreement between the two of them and she wouldn't have been entirely surprised if they'd shook on it some point, a muttered Lucas and Cap in the corner of the Garden as soon as Mattie was born that they'd both be ready and willing to defend him against...anything.

The story came out just before they got married, again. It led The Post sports section just before the All-Star break, a column that earned screen times on SportsCenter and morning talk shows, questioning Killian Jones' decision to skip out on the weekend in order to get married, again.

It just doesn't make any sense. He's sitting in some kind of two-week goal scoring skid and the Rangers haven't won since the start of the month, but Cap seems more worried with floral arrangements and making sure his kid sits in on every single post-game presser.

Don't even get me started on the professionalism of that.

Or lack thereof.

Deadlines, it appear, don't matter much to Cap when there's no threat of a trade nearby.

Killian had broken three sticks. Arthur smashed his whiteboard and Robin had to actually hold Scarlet back, twisting his arms behind him when Will started screaming that he was going to kill that asshole.

Ruby, however, hadn't moved.

She'd read them the column while leaning against the wall of the locker room with an even look on her face and her voice didn't waver once when she promised she would take care of it. There wasn't another column. Or another byline for that columnist.

Ever.

Ruby took her role as Matthew Jones protector very seriously.

And Matthew Jones, it seemed, did not know how to stop on skates.

Emma sighed loudly when he crashed into the boards in front of her, hands flying up to try and brace himself against the bench and Killian was half a step behind him, eyes wide and hair matted down with snow. He glanced up cautiously at her and Ruby.

"We're working on that," he promised, bending his knees to pull Mattie away from the boards. "We've just got to learn how to twist our feet a little bit so we stop, right, kid?"

Mattie nodded enthusiastically, snow flying off his hair and a smile lingering on his mouth. "Yeah," he yelled. "But I like going fast!"

"You've got to stop to score, Mattie," Emma pointed out, tilting her head when he started to wobble just a bit his skates. Killian reached out to grip his shoulder, keeping him balanced and she'd almost gotten used to the idea of her kid growing up on ice.

She only worried a little bit about this deep-rooted desire to go as fast as humanly possible.

He'd probably run over his fair share of goalies.

"What happened to your hat, Mattie?" Emma asked, lifting her eyebrows slightly and glancing at Killian who, suddenly, couldn't seem to meet her gaze.

"It was an unsuspecting victim of speed, Swan," he said, twisting around their kid to lean his shoulder against the boards.

"Yuh huh."

"That's just talent, love. Can't deny talent."

"Yeah, you're an enormous help."

He grinned at her, brushing his hand over Mattie's hair and he nearly fell over when the three-year-old tried to skate over his feet, a bit desperate to keep up with Roland and Henry when they streaked by them.

Killian groaned – a skate somehow finding the inside of his ankle and Ariel would kill all of them one by one if he actually got hurt before this game.

"Jeez, Cap, relax," Ruby laughed, tapping her fingers on the glass to get Mattie's attention. "You score on Rol yet?"

Mattie shook his head despondently and the baby in Emma's arms fussed again, not quite appreciating the influx of sound and shouts and pucks hitting up against the boards. "No," Mattie mumbled and Ruby might have been snow melting on the ground, staring at the kid in front of her with a fondness that made Emma's heart clench. "He said he was going to race Henry."

"I bet they know how to stop," Emma mumbled and Ruby glared at her like she'd just suggested her own son was not capable of being the greatest hockey player to ever play the game.

"You know what you should do mini-Jones," Ruby continued and Mattie's eyes widened at the nickname, still not quite balanced on his skates when he tried to start jumping up and down.

"What?"

"Challenge both of them to a race." Emma groaned and even Killian looked a little frustrated by the suggestion, far too aware of just how seriously Roland and Henry took on-ice competition.

"He's three, Lucas," Killian growled, tugging Mattie back against his leg. Ruby shrugged.

Mattie, however, did not seem remotely concerned about his age – or the distinct lack of size he had against either Roland or Henry.

"Dad! Dad! Dad," Mattie screamed, officially waking up his sister in the process. Emma rolled her eyes skyward, sighing when the snow hit her face, and Mattie had started hitting the side of Killian's hip, certain he simply hadn't heard him and wasn't just doing his best to pointedly ignore whatever plan was, apparently, being formulated.

"What, kid?" Killian asked, bending down until he was eye-level with Mattie.

"I'm going to go race Rol and Henry."

Killian flashed a slightly panicked expression in Emma's direction, but Peggy was still crying and it was absolutely freezing, wind whipping the edges of the blankets out of their tuck. Trying to get Mattie into the suite when the game actually started was going to be a distinct challenge.

"Why don't we try and take some shots instead," Killian suggested, but Mattie was shaking his head before the words were even entirely out of his mouth.

"No, I want to race."

"Of course you do." Killian's eyes kept darting towards Emma, something in between nervous and that stupid, adorable pride that seemed to flash across his face whenever Mattie wanted to get on the ice.

He always wanted to get on the ice.

"We could put Uncle Will in goal though," Killian continued and Emma couldn't quite hold back her laugh at the tone of his voice, pleading with a three-year-old in the middle of Yankee Stadium.

Mattie shook his head. "Rol said he would race me later."

"Oh my God," Ruby groaned loudly, swinging her leg over the top of the boards like she was going for a line change. "Come here, mini-Jones. I'm going to kill myself."

Mattie practically jumped to attention, pulling away from Killian to move towards Ruby and Emma scoffed when she used her kid as leverage.

"Lucas, what the hell," Killian snapped, but Ruby brushed him off, both her feet landing on the ice without incident or any sort of death.

"Cap, seriously, if you don't calm down, you're going to go insane before puck drop and that's just not a good media look."

"Ruby," Emma cautioned, but she might have stayed silent for all the good it did her. Peggy was still crying, Killian stuck halfway in between both kids as he tried to make sure neither one of them dissolved into some sort of on-ice meltdown.

Ruby shook her head, fingers wrapping tightly around Mattie's jersey. "It'll be fine," she said, a certainty in her voice that made it almost painfully obvious she had a plan. "Come on, mini-Jones, let's go before your parents start making out over the boards. It's gross."

Mattie made noise – somewhere between an agreement and a determination to go race children nearly double and triple his size – and Ruby didn't let go of his jersey, letting him half drag her across the ice while she shouted for Roland and Henry.

"It was an almost valiant effort," Emma said, pushing up on her toes to balance some of her weight. Killian made a face, but she didn't move – and he didn't have a leg to stand on, metaphorical or otherwise, when there was a three-year-old crashing into the side of Yankee Stadium because someone hadn't taught him how to stop yet.

"Stopping's the easy part," Killian reasoned. He skated forward, knees hitting up against the boards, but Emma wasn't certain he even noticed, gaze focused on the baby and the blankets in her arms. "Hi, sweetheart," he muttered, tugging his glove off his hand to trail his fingers across Peggy's wrapped-up arms.

"If stopping's so easy, how come he hasn't figured out how to do it yet," Emma challenged and Peggy started gurgling again, twisting in her arms when she tried to work out of the blankets and grab hold of Killian's finger. "God, you're a child menace."

"It's all that excess charm, Swan," he said, flashing her a smile and she couldn't even roll her eyes. It absolutely was. "And I told you, love, stopping is a distinct work in progress. We'll get there."

"He's ridiculously fast. For a three-year-old."

Killian hummed, a self-satisfied look on his face like he was painfully aware the only reason Mattie was fast was because of him. "Where are your skates, Swan?"

"I'm not skating," she said, nodding towards Peggy. "Kind of preoccupied. You know, at one point, she was sleeping."

"Yeah? Finally exhausted, huh?"

"The almost in almost sleeping consistently is going to slowly kill me, I'm positive."

"Ah, we'll get there too."

"You are too easily pushed over, Cap. How are you even standing up? You're the one who spent most of the night in a rocking chair."

"Don't sell yourself short, Swan," Killian countered, kissing her temple lightly and he'd never put his glove back on. He pushed her hair back behind her ear, letting her rest against his chest and Emma tried to breathe the moment in, the Stadium still loud with family and skates and both of those things crashing into boards that couldn't be very sturdy, set to be taken down nearly as soon as the game was over.

He'd woken up before her – snapping to attention as soon as the first sound had come across the room and they were going to have to find a new apartment soon. She'd blinked open her eyes to find Killian slouched in a chair in the corner of the room, feet stretched out in front of him and the bottom of his team-branded shirt riding up, like he'd only just remembered to put it on before letting a three-month-old rest her head on his shoulder.

He was mumbling under his breath, fingers drawing out patterns on Peggy's back and Emma hadn't wanted to move, far too focused on the look on his face, the quiet awe in his gaze whenever his eyes flickered down to their daughter.

He glanced up at her with wide eyes and she could still see how goddamn blue they were in the dim light from the street outside and it only took one nod of her head to get them both back into bed, Emma's head on Killian's shoulder and Peggy on his chest.

"And," Killian added, hand lingering on the back of Emma's neck. "I am absolutely exhausted." She laughed softly, burrowing against his jersey when a gust of wind swept across the stadium and they had to be close to breaking some kind of record for temperature in outdoor games. "Come out on the ice, love."

"What? I'm not wearing skates. I'm holding a baby."

"Those are both very good facts, Swan, but neither one of them prove why you can't come on the ice."

"I'm going to fall on my ass if I try and get over those boards," she argued. "How's that for a fact?"

Killian shook his head, reaching forward to try and pull Peggy into the crook of his elbow. Emma didn't move – even when he shook the glove off his left hand and held his palm up at her. He crooked his finger out her, backing up slowly and that was absolutely cheating.

She couldn't argue with a jersey and snow in his hair and that stupid smile on his face while he was holding a suddenly no longer crying baby.

Killian Jones, father of Emma Swan's children, was absolutely not playing fair.

"That's dumb," she mumbled and he lifted an eyebrow at her. "You can't just do all of that and then expect me not to be vaguely attracted to it."

"Vaguely," Killian repeated skeptically and Emma rolled her eyes, swinging her legs over the boards until both her feet were flat on the ice. She didn't move another inch. "That's insulting, Swan. Go ahead and admit you're incredibly attracted to all of this."

He drew his hand in front of him, pointing between the RANGERS emblazoned across his chest and Peggy, grinning at the tiny girl until he worked something that almost sounded like a giggle out of her.

"Jeez," Emma groaned, but she was standing now and Killian absolutely knew he'd won. He skated back towards her, skates coming up just short of her boots in two seconds flat and she barely had a chance to catch her breath or mumble some insult about stopping before his lips caught hers.

"Did I mention I'm glad you're here, Swan?" he mumbled, pressing her back slightly until the bench dug into the small of her back. He groaned when her hips moved.

"It's kind of my job," Emma said. "We're supposed to be SnapChatting. There's contest winners on the ice."

Killian's chest shook when he laughed, but his hand fell on her waist and his grip on Peggy didn't shift when he kissed Emma again.

"Oh my God," Will groaned, hitting the back of Killian's skates with ice when he stopped. His hand was wrapped around Ruby's wrist, pulling her along the ice behind him and her face was flushed from the snow and the wind and, probably, laughing so hard. "Gross! Gross!"

"God, Scarlet, shut up," Killian sighed, not even bothering to turn around.

"Fine, then I'm not going to tell you that your kid is demanding your presence at the other end of the ice, about to take on both Rol and Henry in some sort of skills competition Lucas has only just come up with."

"It's, literally, a race, Scarlet, we went over this on the way over here," Ruby corrected. "And mini-Jones is absolutely going to win."

Emma scoffed, peering around Killian to level Ruby with a disbelieving stare. "Oh yeah? You strap him to some kind of motor, then?"

"Emma, do you have no faith in me at all?"

"No."

"Rude."

"Can we go?" Will asked impatiently, tugging on Ruby again. "Mini-Jones is going to wreck, obviously. Shouldn't you be SnapChatting this anyway, Emma?"

"I have an assistant for that," she said, but Will and Ruby were already gone, turned towards the far end of the rink and the line of children. Only one of them didn't stop.

Mattie hit the boards again.

"Ok, so we really need to work on stopping," Emma muttered and Killian nodded. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her away from the bench and Emma gasped when her feet started sliding across ice. "God, caveman," she hissed. "Give me some warning before you just start dragging me places."

"Next time we play in a Winter Classic with pre-game skate and you don't bring skates, I'll make sure to warn you, Swan," he chuckled.

Mattie had pushed himself back into line at some point – pulled to his feet by Roland while Henry shifted him on his skate so he was actually facing the right way – and Ruby was explaining rules to whatever it was they were about to do.

"You guys ready?" Ruby asked, staring staring pointedly at Roland and Henry. They both nodded. "You ready to destroy 'em, mini-Jones?"

Mattie nodded and Emma clicked her tongue, not entirely sure destroy was the best word for a three-year-old to be particularly enthusiastic about.

Ruby ignored her.

"Alright," she said, holding a Rangers towel she certainly didn't have when she'd been standing on the bench. "On your mark, get set, go!"

Will reached forward, pushing on Mattie's back and neither Henry nor Roland made much headway before they both fell to the ice, a mess of limbs and staged dramatics and Emma didn't even try to stop her laugh.

Killian's arm stayed around her waist, but she could feel his body shaking against hers and he cheered louder than anyone screamingSkate! Skate! Skate! In her ear like Mattie could do anything except skate.

He didn't know how to stop.

Robin caught him at the other blue line, a one-man wall between Mattie and the boards, tugging him up until he was laying horizontal in his arms. There was a collective whoop of excitement from the entire Rangers first line – hands thrown in the air and phones held loosely in hands to capture the moment or something particularly sentimental and Mulan's camera might have been the loudest noise of all.

"Dad! Dad! Dad," Mattie yelled, trying to climb back to the ice and Robin winced when a particularly well-placed knee ended up in his side.

Killian grinned at Emma, kissing her cheek quickly and Ruby muttered God, Cap, give me your kid, pulling Peggy into her arms. He moved after that, dragging Emma along with him and meeting Robin and Mattie at center ice.

He bent his knees at the same time he came to a stop, nearly pulling Emma down with him and Killian glanced up at her, grimacing slightly. "You were great," he promised, turning back towards Mattie. "Super fast."

Mattie beamed at them, throwing his arms around Killian's neck and all three of them lost their balance at that, a mess of limbs and skates and camera shutters.

They won the game. Eventually. And Emma got the contest winners to their seats and promised to find something to drink so they wouldn't freeze to death.

Ruby made the bar open up for hot toddies.

Killian scored, giving the puck to Mattie with a smile on his face as soon as they walked into the locker room afterwards. He barely let go of it long enough to put on the shelf over his bed.

Her phone dinged hours later, sitting on the nightstand in the apartment and Emma hissed in her breath, glancing quickly at the crib in the corner of the room. Still asleep. She swiped her phone across the screen, sinking back into blankets as Killian's arm inched around her.

"What's the matter, Swan?" he mumbled, face half pressed into the pillow and her hair.

She laughed softly, blinking so she wouldn't do something stupid like cry over the photo on her phone screen and, maybe, wake up Peggy again.

It was a picture – all four of them, Mattie clinging to Emma's leg and Peggy back in Killian's arms and she was staring at him or he was staring at her with matching looks on their face. They looked happy.

Other level happy.

The kind of happy Emma had never allowed herself to even consider, certain, it was a lie they fed to kids who grew up alone, just to make sure they didn't go completely crazy.

She'd absolutely failed on that whole not crying thing.

"Swan," Killian muttered again and she'd never actually answered him.

"Nothing," she promised, putting the phone back on the nightstand next to her and twisting around so she was facing him. He blinked twice, that exhaustion he'd promised he felt before visible in every inch of him and Emma pressed up to brush her lips against his. "Nothing's wrong."

And it wasn't.

She saved the photo.

He couldn't seem to move away from his locker.

He knew he had to. He had to get up and get on the ice and there wasn't anyone else around, the sounds of the team he only half knew now making its way around the corner of the still-open door.

They were playing soccer.

It was, apparently, a thing now.

Killian took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and he couldn't quite ever remember being this nervous. At least not before a hockey game.

But this wasn't just a hockey game, this was the hockey game in some sort of caps lock and, maybe, bolded way. The hockey game that would change everything and end everything and this was it – finally.

"You're some kind of walking cliché," Emma muttered, grinning at him as she leaned against the doorframe.

"I'm sitting still, Swan," he argued and she scoffed under her breath, taking a step into the familiar space. She sank down next to him without a word, nudging her knee against his and Killian felt like the entire goddamn Garden was going to fall apart around him.

"Did you scrum?"

"Lucas would kill me if I didn't."

"She's way too busy trying to keep ESPN away from that rookie. They're demanding a comment about his status for tonight and she looks like she's come up with several different ways to kill them already."

"Why is she even dealing with that anymore?" Killian asked. "Way below her pay grade now, right?"

Emma shrugged. "Ah, sometimes there's comfort in falling back on old habits. And she's got a fancy corner office and VP after her name now, but Rubes misses the scrums and dictating what quotes the entire New York media got."

"That was almost heavy-handed, love," Killian muttered, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling at him.

"I had a feeling."

"Yeah? About what?"

"It's a big deal," she said like that, somehow, explained it. It kind of did.

This was it.

Again.

He'd played out his max deal, the zeroes that were supposed to keep him in New York for the rest of his career had done just that – he'd stayed and they'd built something, two Cups and two kids that wore his jersey to every home game and went to All-Star weekend the season before, some kind of last ride nonsense that made Killian's shoulders clench every time he heard it.

Except it didn't end the way it was supposed to.

It ended in the second round, on the road, without his kids or his wife, just Robin snapping a stick over his knee and Will throwing his helmet so hard against the visitor's locker room that the stupid thing cracked right down the middle.

He'd saved the text messages he found on his phone that night.

I love you. We love you. Come home.

The picture she'd sent was still his lock screen and his home screen – Matt and Peggy sitting on the couch still wearing Jones jerseys long after the game had ended and they'd lost, smiles on their faces and pillows stacked in between them.

He came home to find all three of them asleep, a mess of bodies and hair stuck precariously in between limbs and Killian could barely see Emma underneath the two kids on top of her, heads on her shoulders and arms splayed over her stomach.

The floor creaked when he bent down to try and make sure Matt didn't inadvertently pull Emma's hair out of her head and Killian winced, cursing the old in the new apartment they'd bought a few months after Peggy had been born.

Matt mumbled something, blinking against the light of the still-on TV. "Dad?" he asked softly and Killian's heart lurched.
He probably wouldn't ever get used to that.

"Hey, kid," Killian muttered, sliding his bag off his shoulder and squatting down so he was level with the couch. "How was Mom's event?"

"Rol was mad. He said that Sens guy was offsides."

Killian also thought that Sens guy was offsides, but the new coach – hired after Arthur left to take some kind of front-office job with the league before the start of the season – didn't see that and they hadn't challenged and they'd lost the entire goddamn series.

And the season was over.

And it wasn't supposed to end like this.

"It happens sometimes," Killian said, an excuse that didn't ring quite true in the face of a slightly sleepy six-year-old.

"But…" Matt started, voice rising impossibly quick on just three words and Killian shook his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His knees were killing him. There was a bruise on his thigh that he was half convinced would never disappear.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

They were supposed to win.

It was supposed to be something perfect, some kind of storybook ending that would make it all worth it and his kids would see them win a Cup and Emma could, finally, change the picture on her phone.

Matt sighed softly, shoulders somehow managing to sag even when he was laying on his side and Killian fell back when he felt arms around his neck and a knee pressed into that bruise on his thigh.

"You should have won," Matt whispered, face pressed against the front of Killian's league-mandated jacket, hands gripping the back of the fabric tightly, like he'd been waiting all night to break into tears over a hockey game.

Killian's breath caught in his throat – not just because of the other knee that seemed intent on trying to collapse his lung – and he pulled Matt against him, shifting so his leg wasn't twisted up underneath him and both dangerous knees were moved to either side of his waist.

He wasn't sure who held on tighter, Matt's chest heaving against Killian's front and it was some kind of miracle they hadn't woken up the entire building, let alone Emma and Peggy.

"Hey," Killian said softly, nudging his shoulder up when it seemed Matt's cry had run its course. "It's ok. It's just a game, Matt."

Matt stared at him like he'd just suggested the sun would never rise again. "What?" Matt asked, his voice scratchy with his disbelief. "But, but, Dad! You lost! And that guy was offsides and...you should have won! You were supposed to win!"

Killian had dealt with everything from heartbreak to sorrow to the complete desolation of rock bottom over the course of his career, hiding flasks of ancient rum in the floorboards of the brownstone, but he couldn't quite remember anything cutting across him as sharply as those words, Matt's certainty that he'd win and keep winning settling in the pit of his stomach like some kind of anvil.

"I know, kid," Killian sighed, tracing his fingers over the back of Matt's jersey. He noticed a movement on the couch, Emma lifting her head slowly. She smiled softly at him, eyes trained on his hand and the numbers underneath it.

"But," he continued, not quite sure he could come up with a reason that seemed plausible when he was just as frustrated. Maybe more. Probably more. God, it was all over and he wasn't ready for it to be over.

Irony was a motherfucking joke.

Killian took a deep breath, glancing back at Emma. She had her lip pulled tightly between her teeth and arm wrapped around Peggy, but she didn't blink when she met his gaze.

Explain. Tell him it'll be ok. Believe it'll be ok.

"But," Killian repeated. "It's not the end of the world. They're still going to play next year and we can go to games and all of Mom's events. They can win next year."

He knew it didn't work as soon as he pulled away, staring down an unconvinced Matt who probably would have crossed his arms for good measure if he weren't too busy holding onto Killian's jacket like a vice.

"You're not going to be there though," Matt grumbled and Killian shot a desperate look Emma's direction.

"Mattie," Emma said softly and his head snapped around at the sound of his own name. "We talked about this kid, after the game."

That anvil in the pit of Killian's stomach seemed to press down harder – and it was almost too easy to fall back into some cycle of this, hating and disappointing and it wasn't supposed to end like this.

They were supposed to win one more time.

HIs kids were supposed to see him win.

"I know," Matt groaned, twisting around and rolling his eyes with a move that was so painfully Killian, it seemed like the universe reaching out and slapping him across the face. Emma pulled her lips back behind her teeth, eyes widening slightly and Killian groaned, shifting to try and redistribute some of his son's weight on his legs.

"There's a but coming here, I'm sure of it," Killian said, far too aware of just how much his kid was like him even without the pointed eye roll or distinct physical similarities.

They both wanted to win.

A bit desperately.

"But," Matt half-shouted. "None of that matters if you're not there! It's stupid if you're not playing! And Uncle Robin's gonna retire and Rol's gonna play for Worlds and he said he might not be back for the playoffs next year and…." He took a deep breath, eyes just a bit too wide and they were dangerously close to a return to tears. "And Henry's gone and I...I don't care about hockey!"

Killian gaped at him, not entirely prepared for the complete meltdown they were staging in the middle of the living room. Emma pushed up slowly, pulling Peggy with her and muttering under her breath when their daughter started to stir.

"Matthew," Killian said slowly, pulling his hands away from the front of his shirt. He was very close to choking him with his own tie.

Matt shook his head deftly, lips set in a straight line and he got that from Emma. "Dad, you were supposed to win!"

He was.

Killian bit his lip tightly, trying not to join a six-year-old in some kind of utter breakdown over hockey on the floor. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and Matt's gaze had turned a bit desperate, staring at Killian like he had the answers to the universe and how to win a Stanley Cup a third time.

The couch creaked again when Emma moved, but she didn't say anything and Killian had always been dimly aware of this – Emma's certainty that Matt actually thought he was some kind of Captain America practically ringing in his ears.

Matthew David Jones, as promised, grew up on the ice.

He grew up in locker rooms and on team flights and post-game team dinners at the restaurant with an entire hockey team defending his honor and keeping his name out of headlines and off the internet. He had a closet full of team-branded merchandise and both Emma and Killian knew he kept that Winter Classic puck in his backpack, carting it back and forth between the apartment and school like some kind of good luck charm.

And the whole thing made Killian go a bit cross-eyed, the idea that his kid could love something as much as he did, could want to be on the ice as much as he did, but it all seemed to be blowing up in his goddamn face in the middle of the night on the living room floor.

Killian moved his hand again, tracing over his own name on his son's back and Matt pressed his forehead into his shoulder blade.

"I wanted to win," he mumbled and Killian's eyes darted to Emma. She smiled again, brushing her lips over Peggy's head and she'd finally woken up as well, pushing dark hair out of her eyes and pressing a hand into Emma's stomach before jumping off the couch.

Killian groaned when another kid landed on top of him, an elbow coming dangerously close to his eye and Emma shifted to the center of the couch, pulling her legs up to rest her chin on her knees. She was playing with the ring around her neck, the smile still lingering on the corner of her mouth and, at some point, they'd gotten pretty good at not even having to say things.

It helped when there were kids around.

Kids who, desperately, wanted to win hockey games.

Emma shrugged, head tilted slightly and she could have been a flashing neon sign for how obvious it all was.

One more season.

We're going to win. Again.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy," Peggy shouted, screaming his name in Killian's ear. He squeezed one eye shut, trying to keep his balance.

"Hey, sweetheart," he muttered. He tugged her back against him, running a hand through barely-curling hair and her jersey scratched against the back of his wrist and the scars on his left hand. "Aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

"We wanted to see you! And Mommy said we could wait on the couch and we watched TV and ate popcorn!" She narrowed her eyes slightly, voice lowering like she was telling him a secret and Killian tried to look even remotely patient. "MD was really mad," Peggy whispered, nodding towards her brother like he couldn't hear everything she'd just said.

"I was not," Matt argued, knee hitting Killian again when he twisted to glare at Peggy. "Not as much as Rol! And not as much as Leo! Dad, Dad! Leo threw his stick after you guys lost. Uncle David got really upset. It broke right in half!"

"It was all very dramatic," Emma added and for half a second Killian forgot he'd lost and that guy was offsides and his career had ended on the road with Locksley and Scarlet arguing a few feet away from him.

For half a second it didn't matter.

There were kids hanging off him and Emma hadn't let go of her ring, staring straight at him with something that almost looked like contentment in her gaze.

And if he could come home to this, could be sure that this was here, no matter what, then maybe the game didn't matter.

Or, at least, didn't matter quite as much.

And he'd probably brag to David that his son hadn't broken anything in a public place as soon as he saw him.

"Daddy, where's your ring?" Peggy asked, a slightly scandalized voice that probably shouldn't have belonged to an almost four-year-old.

He hadn't put it back on yet – because he was a melodramatic fool who couldn't quite bring himself to stop thinking about turnovers and antiquated plus-minus ratings and what he could have done to make sure they'd won the game the entire time he'd been sitting on the plan. So he hadn't pulled the ring off his neck or put it back on his finger, covering up the ink that wrapped all the way around the base of it.

Emma had called it sentimental, but she always traced over it, eyelashes fluttering every single time and maybe that's why he'd done it, just a few weeks after wedding number one and just before camp started that year – to remember the look on her face whenever she pushed the ring back on his finger as soon as he came back home.

"That's mom's job, Mar," Matt sighed, sounding like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He made a face at her, eyes rolling again and Killian clicked his tongue.

"Nuh uh," he said, tugging on jersey until Matt met his gaze. "None of that."

Matt grumbled, trying to pull away from Killian – but his right hand wasn't bruised and he had enough of a grip on the jersey that even a surprisingly strong kid couldn't quite work out of the hold. "Sorry, Mar," he mumbled and Killian sighed.

Emma laughed so loudly she nearly fell off the couch. "What?" Killian asked sharply. She just shook her head, shoulders still moving when she fell back against cushions and pillows and the mountain of blankets they must have stolen from all of the rooms in the apartment.

"Nothing, nothing," she promised. "Just mirrors, or something."

"Mirrors?"

"Or something. God, someone should be taping you and then showing it back. It's like he's studied you or something."

"Swan, you're not making any sense."

"Well, it's the middle of the night."

"Two in the morning. That's not middle of the night, just late," Killian argued and Emma's eyes flashed with amusement. Matt groaned. "Although," he added, glancing down at the kids still clinging to him. "It might not be a bad idea to get off the floor and find some kind of bed."

Matt and Peggy started arguing almost immediately – demands to hear more about the game and after the game and something that sounded like highlights that Killian couldn't quite believe he'd heard – but he was exhausted and bruised and so goddamn disappointed his body still ached with it.

Although that might have been the bruises too.

"Come on," Emma said, swinging her legs back onto the floor and prying Peggy's arms off Killian's neck. "We waited for Dad, time to go to bed."

Peggy stuck her lower lip out, some kind of perfect pout Emma and Killian were both convinced she practiced. "But," she argued. "He just got here!"

"You were asleep five minutes ago," Emma laughed, lacing her hand through Peggy's and trying, rather unsuccessfully, to pull her down the hallway. There were tears welling in her eyes and Killian steeled himself for another meltdown in the living room – although melting down over bed and not hockey seemed a bit more normal than anything else.

"I want to stay with you," Peggy continued, pressing up on the balls of her feet as she grabbed the front of Emma's t-shirt. Team-branded. His name was on the back of that one too. God, they were all still wearing his number.

"Margaret," Emma sighed and Killian couldn't quite take a deep breath, still sitting on the floor with Matt half on top of him and an entire family wearing his jersey hours after he'd come off the ice for the last time.

"Yeah," Matt yelled, stepping on Killian in an effort to get up quickly. He tugged on Emma's free arm, pulling on her third round of replacement laces. He'd given her the first ones a few days after Matt was born, carrying them around in his pocket for days, an idea he couldn't quite understand – they were already married and there was a Stanley Cup ring around her neck that she hadn't ever taken off, practically growling at the doctor when they'd tried to move it in the hospital as soon as she'd gone into labor.

But it felt important , somehow, another tangible reminder or something that didn't quite make sense, but her wrist looked bare without them and, well, the laces had been the very first thing he'd given her.

Ah, well, maybe the second.

But saying you've actually given someone your heart sounded absurd outloud, even for someone as decidedly melodramatic as Killian Jones, former captain of the New York Rangers.

Killian hissed when Matt tugged a bit too forcefully and it'd be more difficult to get another set if he wasn't on the team anymore.

"You guys have a TV in your room," Matt added, as if that decided that. "And," he continued. "Your bed is huge."

"That's true," Killian admitted and Emma's head snapped towards him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly. He shrugged.

Selfish, needy, clingy ass – who didn't want his kids on the other side of the apartment when all of this was over.

"Yeah, ok," Emma mumbled, but the ends of her lips quirked up. "I'm bringing the popcorn though," she continued, staring at Killian as if she was challenging him to argue with her. He didn't. He was starving.

"Of course, Swan."

Matt made some kind of at the nickname and Peggy beamed at both of them, holding her hands up with the obvious intent of being lifted off the floor as soon as Killian stood up. "C'mon, sweetheart," he said, groaning slightly when her hair hit against her face as she flopped over his shoulder and every single muscle in his body protested at the added weight. "You've got to take the jersey off."

Peggy froze against him, her toes pushing into his stomach and maybe his liver or something and Killian startled underneath her. Emma laughed softly, pulling Matt against her side and resting her chin on the top of his head.

"What?" Killian asked.

She shook her head slowly, taking a step towards him and brushing her lips against his and it took everything in him not to surge up against her – far too aware of what it felt like to be without her the night before and, God, if he hadn't missed her more than anything it was some kind of impossible lie.

"I love you," she said softly and Matt made some kind of strangled sound, complete with a tongue half hanging out his mouth. "No matter what."

It took what felt like another full season to get two kids ready for bed – teeth brushed and arguments over keeping jerseys on and trying to drag the blankets off the couch and into the room at the other end of the hall ended with three frames knocked off the wall, one gold medal inexplicably on the floor and a knocked over coffee table that, just, didn't make any sense at all.

And it must have been close to three in the morning before Matt and Peggy were asleep, the sounds of the TV barely audible over their quiet breathing as Emma burrowed against Killian's side, one kid on either side of them.

"He waited for you, you know," Emma said softly, voice just a bit mumbled against the t-shirt he'd pulled on.

Killian shifted, doing his best not to move Peggy too much where her head was resting on his chest. "What?"

"Mattie," she explained. "He was fine, or fine'ish, at the event. You can absolutely brag to David too because not only did Leo break his stick, but Mattie was the one who got him to calm down. David and Reese's couldn't do anything."

Killian could feel his eyes widen, knew his mouth had fallen open and the weight on top of him, suddenly, felt impossibly heavy – somewhere in the realm of the weight of the entire goddamn world.

Emma nodded, his silence an answer to a question she hadn't even really asked. "He kept it together the whole time. And we talked about it, about losing and the end in some kind of impossibly large way." She sighed softly, blinking quickly against the tears that had found their way into the corners of her eyes.

"But, uh," she continued. "I think, I think it all kind of broke when you got home. That's why he freaked. It all felt very, very real."

"It is, Swan," Killian said, a note of bitterness in his voice that didn't belong in that room with popcorn and kids and she wasn't even trying to stop the tears from falling down her cheeks, gripping his t-shirt just a bit too tightly.

"I know. I just…."

"What?"

"It shouldn't end like that. Not for you."

Killian let out a shaky laugh, his own vision blurring just a bit and in their collective determination to focus on their kid's dental hygiene, neither one of them remembered his ring, still hanging on a chain around his neck.

"Here," he said, leaning forward as much as he could and tugging the chain over his head. "Your move, love."

Emma rolled her eyes, but she pulled the ring out of his fingers, twisting it slightly like she was staring at it for the very first time. And he wasn't sure if he'd stopped breathing or started breathing far too quickly, but it kind of felt like the room was spinning and Killian kept staring at her if only because he was half certain she was some kind of anchor.

Idiot.

"Indefinitely," Emma muttered, sliding the ring back on and her thumb lingered over that one scar that ran from his wrist up to his index finger.

"No matter what, Swan."

She was still crying, silent tears running down her cheeks, and neither one of them could actually flip on their sides, kids laying on top of them and pillows in between them and Killian's foot was twisted up in a blanket.

"Do you…" Emma trailed off, worrying her lip between her teeth. "Did you think about it?"

"It ending like this?" She hummed and Killian tried to shrug. It didn't really work. "It's different than it was before, Swan. It's not like there's nothing besides hockey. There's more than that. The game is the lowest thing on the list of things I'm worried about."

"What's at the top?"

"A three-way tie for first place includes everyone in this bed."

"Sap."

"You're the one who texted me to come home, love."

"That's true," she admitted. "And I wanted you to. We all did. They're not going to take that jersey off for days, you know that, right?"

"That's ridiculous."

"Super dad," Emma muttered and Killian scoffed out of instinct, that tiny, desperate voice that was still half certain he wasn't anything without hockey rearing its ugly head as soon as the final buzzer had sounded.

"Swan, you planned ten events this postseason. And, at least three quarters of the reason Henry is even going to school is because of you."

"Ok, that's not even remotely true. It's not like I wrote the stories."

"You read them. All of them. As soon as he e-mails you something new, you drop everything and read it."

"That's because they're good."

"So are you."

Emma sighed, flipping her head back up to stare at the ceiling, but her right hand had found his left and Killian smiled when her fingers laced through his. "One more?" she asked softly and there it was, the question and the idea and the hope that had been lingering in the back corner of his mind since he'd read her text message.

"What do you think, Swan?"

"That's not my call."

"Sure it is."

She glanced at him and he'd probably never get used to that look – something that felt a bit like understanding and a lot like want and it felt a bit selfish to not just constantly fall to his knees and thank whoever for sending her to New York and him and this entire family.

"It shouldn't end like that," she whispered, squeezing his hand slightly. "Tell Gina one more. Scarlet will be thrilled."

"Phillip might actually pass out on the ice," Killian muttered, talking so he didn't do something stupid like dissolve into emotion in the middle of the bed. "He looked like he was going to cry during handshakes too."

"If you don't think Mattie didn't immediately point that out to me, then you're not nearly as perceptive as you claim to be."

"Smart kid."

"It's because he's determined to be you."

Killian's stomach flipped and he pressed the heel of his foot into the blanket it was still wrapped up in so he didn't just start making out with his wife in between both of their kids.

"I didn't send anything out," Emma added, sounding a bit like she was sharing classified secrets of the New York Rangers community relations department. "About you or even Robin for that matter. Ruby and I decided last week. We weren't going to do anything until, at least, after the Cup. Whoever won that."

"You are incredible, you know that?" Killian asked and the words fell out of his mouth as soon as he thought them, only just managing not to actually shout them at her. That would have woken up both kids.

"What a line."

"The absolute, honest truth."

Emma shifted against him, trying to find a way to burrow her head against his shoulder when she was still on her back with someone else's arm flung over her stomach, but it almost kind of worked and she'd moved enough that his lips could find the top of her head with relative ease.

"One more?" she asked again and Killian took a deep breath before he answered.

"Yeah," he said softly. "One more."

Regina wasn't surprised – shrugging a quiet obviously when he told her two days later – and both Phillip and Will had shouted, knocking over several stools along the bar in the back corner of the restaurant, screaming until Matt had joined, yelling even louder when Scarlet lifted him onto his shoulders with practiced ease.

He came back.

A one-year deal with a player option for a second because Regina was, well, Regina and there were plenty of headlines – plenty of speculation and just a few mutterings that it felt a bit desperate, particularly after the last ride tour the season before.

And it wasn't perfect that first season, but the second, the second season, the last season, they kept winning.

They won the President's Trophy and that rookie was incredible, just as fast as Killian, still, inexplicably was, breaking Phillip's scoring record with a month left in the regular season.

They kept winning and Matt and Peggy had been in the stands when they'd clinched the conference finals at home, Killian absolutely refusing to touch the Prince of Wales trophy when he posed for pictures.

He was half certain Matt hadn't worn anything except his jersey for the better part of the last month.

And now, he was frozen in front of his locker, teammates playing soccer in the hallway and he could vaguely make out Scarlet's arguments about hand balls or something he probably didn't understand, Emma on his side with a hopeful smile on her face and her hand wrapped up in his.

Game five at the Garden.

They could win.

"Scarlet's going to kill himself," Emma mumbled, leaning her head on the side of his shoulder and he hadn't actually put his jersey on yet.

"He's old, that's why."

"Don't let him hear you say that, he'll probably check you into the boards during warmups."

"He'd have to catch me first."

Emma grinned at him, tugging her head up sharply and her hair shifted off her shoulders when she moved, a flash of green eyes and confidence and absolute certainty. He was going to score four goals – at least.

"There's that confidence," she said, hooking her finger underneath the front of his pads.

He probably should have kissed her. All things considered, that probably would have made the most sense, but he suddenly realized Emma was sitting next to him in front of his locker and they were only a little over an hour off of puck drop and she probably should have been anywhere else except sitting next to him in front of his locker.

There was an event outside and fans to relate to and towels to hand out.

He hoped their kids got towels.

Emma absolutely made sure their kids got towels.

"Not that I'm not glad you're here, Swan," Killian started, letting her hair fall over the tips of his fingers, "but why are you here?"

She laughed, shaking her head slightly and pulling away from his hand and there was a protest on his lips for half a moment – before she tugged the hand back down and wrapped her fingers around his.

There was something just a bit off about it though, the smile not quite reaching her eyes, and Emma's lip was in between her teeth, gaze falling to the unlaced skates on Killian's feet.

"Swan," Killian repeated and her head practically snapped up at the sound. "How's the stuff outside?"

"Crowded."

"That seems good."

"It is," Emma agreed. "For sure. I've got, like, a ridiculous amount of video of Mattie scoring on that virtual reality thing. Although I'm not sure we should do that anymore because he seems pretty convinced he can actually score on an NHL goal now and get drafted like..tomorrow."

Killian chuckled slightly, but she still hadn't really answered his question – and she was still talking.

"Plus, here, here, I know you're supposed to be focused, but seriously, look at this," Emma continued, shifting on the seat to tug her phone out of her back pocket and push it into his chest.

The jersey was absolutely enormous.

It was close to touching the ground, covering Peggy's knees and just above her ankles and Killian didn't even have to look at her shoulder to know there was a 'C' there, far too preoccupied with the excitement on her face and the blue and white pom poms in her hands.

"Where did she get any of this?" Killian asked and Emma rolled her eyes.

"Your brother and El apparently bought out Chase Square. Mattie's got a new jersey too. That, however, took a bit more convincing. It was like Henry 2.0."

"Jeez," he muttered.

"They're excited."

"Who? Liam and El or our kids?"

Emma's eyes flashed again and he'd done it partially for the reaction and partially because it was absolutely true and an absolutely legitimate question.

The answer was probably Liam.

"The compromise in all of this was for Mattie to wear his jersey under the new jersey as some kind of double-force good luck charm. There was a very long explanation and probably could have used a PowerPoint if we had time, but, suffice it to say he's certain you're going to score, and I'm quoting here, forty-two goals."

"Forty two," Killian repeated, quirking an eyebrow and Emma nodded seriously. "Seems a little high, don't you think?"

"Eh, I don't know. Par for the big-moment course or something, right? Correct me if I'm wrong, Cap, but did you not hat trick during an Olympic gold medal game?"

"Ah, but that was different. That was for more than the game."

"Isn't this?" Emma asked and he would have heard the question behind the question even if she were still at her event and he was on the ice and the entire goddamn Garden was screaming.

"Silly question," he muttered.

He kissed her after that – it would been ridiculous not to.

And he could hear her breath hitch against him, that very particular noise in the back of her throat lingering in the back of his brain long after they stopped making out in the middle of the Rangers locker room.

"How many times do you think we've actually made out in here?" Emma asked, fingers still tangled up in his hair and the front of his pads and Killian nearly fell off the bench.

"Hundreds? Is that a lot?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "It's been awhile, right? If we were counting everywhere in the Garden it's got to be in the thousands. God, does that make us the worst professionals in the whole world?"

"Eh, maybe not if we win."

"We're totally going to win."

"Emma Swan, optimist."

"Emma Jones, optimist," she corrected softly and Killian's heart leapt into his throat and possibly out of his mouth and, promptly, landed in front of Emma where it had been for the better part of the last ten years.

He kissed again – unable to come up with any reason not to – and they'd somehow managed to twist their legs together, determined to get that extra half an inch closer to the other. "Why are you here, love?" he asked again and she scowled at him.

"It really did almost have something to do with making out."

He was half a breath away from something slightly sarcastic, an offer to make out just a bit more before puck drop, but he opened his mouth and his breath rushed out of his lungs and Emma smiled as soon as he figured it out.

"Hat trick," she said said softly.

Killian's laugh was shaky at best and that was stupid because he was so goddamn happy he couldn't quite remember that there was still a hockey game to play.

He had to leave this locker room eventually.

"Emma," he said before he could stop himself and she made a face, twisting her mouth slightly at her own name.

She nodded, pulling herself closer to his side and he worked his arm around her waist without even thinking about it, hand falling back on her stomach without a word.

"A blueberry," Emma continued. "That's what I'm...guessing she and or he is. Depending on timing, or whatever. We should go to the doctor after you win a Cup. I'm thinking...Christopher. Goes good with William."

His heart was racing impossibly fast – it felt like he'd just tried to outrun getting checked by Scarlet – and the muscles in his face were going to cramp from smiling so much, but it felt like the entire world had flipped in that moment and those seemed like acceptable prices to pay for a third kid.

A third kid.

They were going to have a third kid.

"Seven weeks?" Killian asked, trying to think back to websites and they hadn't really been trying, again, but they hadn't really been avoiding it and maybe he'd go buy out the rest of Chase Square after the game.

"God, why do you remember that?" Emma muttered, but she hadn't moved away from him, hitching her leg up over the top of his thigh.

Killian shrugged. "It's important, Swan."

"You're a giant, sentimental sap, you know that? With an internet addiction."

"I'm trying to stay informed."

"Internet. Addiction."

He rolled his eyes and he'd always kind of known it would be like this – knew they understood each other in some kind of meaningful, overpowering way, but it was, somehow, still more than that. It was giant and sentimental and chock full of that sap he'd been accused of because, at some point, they stopped understanding what the other had been through and started looking forward to what they were building together.

Ten years and, maybe, three Cups and, now, three kids later and they'd survived headlines and internet rumors and several incarnations of laces around her wrist and Killian was certain he loved her more than he did that very first moment in the brownstone.

The pillow was sitting in the corner of their bedroom.

Still.

"Hey," Emma muttered, tugging lightly on his pads. "You….you're good? Like with this? The hat trick or the first line or whatever? That's as many hockey metaphors as I could come up with on the way over here."

"Both metaphors are fine, love. And, yeah, of course. Why wouldn't it be good? Or the best?"

"The best?"

"The best."

She made a face, scrunching her nose and keeping her lip in between her teeth. "Blueberry, blue-seat blue," Emma whispered.

"Seems like a sign."

"Are we into that? Fate seems kind of lame, doesn't it?"

"Ask me that question after the game, Swan."

She did.

She barely kept her balance on the ice when they opened the far doors, tugged along by two kids and a whole battalion of Jones jerseys – all of them racing towards Killian with smiles on their faces and their arms through in the air and they'd won. Again.

Hat trick.

And it was different than the first two – kids jumping on top of him and over him and Peggy nearly choked him on the ice before Will had finished skating around with the Cup, screaming in his ear when they started pumping music through the Garden speakers.

"Dad, we won! We won," Matt screamed, landing hard on the ice when he tried to climb up Killian's side. Emma rolled her eyes, bending down to haul him back up and pull him tightly to her side. He didn't seem to notice, still talking a mile a minute against her side, detailing everything from the final minute of play to Killian's goal and when's the parade, don't we get a parade.

"Relax, kid," Emma laughed, nodding when he moved back towards Roland who caught him without even breaking his stride on the ice.

"God, you're enormous," Roland said, pushing Matt away from him to muss his hair and work a groan out of the eight-year-old. "Hook, stop feeding this kid so much."

"If memory serves, mate, you were just as big at eight and just as enthusiastic about winning a Cup," Killian muttered and he was dimly aware of the camera shutters when he skated towards Roland Matt.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"That teenage angst knows no bounds, huh?"

Roland made a face and Emma laughed, inching closer to his side and wrapping an arm around his waist, the other hand carding through the end of Peggy's hair. "You went pretty fast, Hook," Roland continued and if Killian wasn't already certain his heart was still sitting on the locker room floor, he would have been positive it fell on the ice at the sound of the nickname and the age-old compliment.

"Not completely washed up yet."

Roland rolled his eyes. "You want to race, Matt?" he asked, pushing on the kid's shoulder again and Matt's eyes practically light up.

He nodded quickly and Killian hadn't noticed he was already wearing skates.

"When?" Killian asked, glancing down at Emma.

"Five minutes left in the third. When you guys went up by two. He was convinced it was a win."

"Efficient."

"Confident."

"Come on, Rol," Matt whined, tugging on the front of Roland's jersey and he wasn't wearing skates. "Let's go, let's go, let's go."

"Fine, fine," Roland sighed, crouching low with his toes pressed into the ice. "Ready, go!" He was off half a second later, pushing back on Matt's shoulder to give himself a head start and Matt only screamed about cheating for half a second before sprinting after him.

He almost beat him.

"First round," Killian muttered, kissing the top of Emma's head. Peggy mumbled against his shoulder, pushing her forehead against his neck and Killian tightened his arm, hugging her closer to her chest. "You tired, little love?" he asked, leaning back to meet her eyes.

Peggy shook her head, huffing an exasperated sound that didn't sound particularly five and a half, and Killian lifted his eyebrows. "I want to race too," she grumbled.

That wasn't the answer he'd been expecting.

Emma fell against his chest, body shaking with laughter and Killian gaped at his daughter – he probably should have expected exactly that answer.

"They'll all go in the first round," Emma mumbled. "That's obviously the only answer."

"Obviously," Killian agreed. He turned quickly, and the music was still blaring and there were still a questionable number of Jones jerseys on the ice, Liam tugging El along the boards while Lizzie chased after Matt and Roland and Henry had both hands on the twin's shoulders, pulling them towards Will and the Cup.

Robin kept taking pictures – his phone held loosely in his hand while his thumb just kept tapping on the screen like he couldn't decide what to focus on.

"What?" Emma asked softly, the sound shooting down Killian's spine and landing right in the very center of him, some kind of metaphorical flame that probably could have melted the ice they were standing on.

"You happy, Swan?"

The smile inched across her face slowly, eyes meeting his and they'd won – in some kind life-changing way that didn't really include hockey.

"Incandescently," she answered, tongue pressing into the corner of her lips and he exhaled, trying to press the sound of her voice and the look on her face into his memory. "Come on, Cap, you want to race?"

"What?"

"I think you've been challenged to a race, Cap. By two different Joneses, no less. Seems wrong to deny both of us."

"You're not wearing skates, love."

"I guess we'll just have to team up or something then. You want to race both of us, Peg?"

"Yeah," Peggy yelled, already trying to climb back down Killian. "Let's go. Let's go! Dad you've got to help mom skate, ok?"

"No backing out, now," Emma muttered, holding her hand out and Killian took it without a second thought.

Peggy was already halfway to the blue line. "I think we've been absolutely destroyed, Swan," Killian muttered and Emma shrugged.

"Ah, worth it." He pulled her forward, dragging her across the tiny space of ice between them and the yelp she let out seemed to echo in between his ears. "What are you doing?"

"I was promised a race, love."

"We lost already."

"Well, I don't know about that. Come on, skate with me. Or, you know, glide. Whatever."

She didn't say anything for what felt like forever and Killian was half nervous she'd mutter something about sentiment under her breath, but she didn't. Emma just nodded, smile a bit softer, but just as certain when she tightened her grip on his hand.

"Yeah, ok," Emma whispered and it sounded like a promise.

He kissed her at center ice, underneath that giant scoreboard with the music still blaring and their kids a few feet away, screaming and skating and someone was still probably holding the goddamn Stanley Cup.

That was how it was supposed to end.

Perfectly.