FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Atlanta, GA — December 25— Under winter lights and a sky clear enough to count the stars, the Atlanta Strikers’ home field became a wedding aisle asMarlowandDeclanwere married in a private Christmas Day ceremony.
The pitch was transformed with winter-white tents, evergreens, and florals along the touchlines. In keeping with the couple’s wish for an intimate celebration, the guest list included only the Strikers team, close family and friends, and one journalist granted exclusive access:Zoey Sharpe, the newly appointed reporter forThe Cinnamon Grove Sun.
“This wasn’t about spectacle,” Marlow said. “It was about home. For us, that’s this club, this field, and these people.”
Declan added, “I’ve played on a lot of pitches, but nothing will compare to walking this one with her and leaving as husband and wife.”
The ceremony highlighted the club’s unity and the season’s spirit—quiet, joyful, and close-knit—closing with carols and a small reception under the tents at midfield.
For the full exclusive story and photos, readZoey Sharpe’s feature inThe Cinnamon Grove Sun.
Chapter sixty-one
Mistletoe & Matchday
Eslin
The field is still glowing from the wedding—strings of lights draped from goal to goal, white tents breathing out soft heat, evergreens threaded with ribbon along the touchlines. It smells like winter and sugar. The team is scattered in little clusters, balancing champagne flutes and plates of cake, ties loosened, cheeks pink from cold and relief. Family and a few friends fill the rest. Zoey Sharpe hovers near the edge of it all with her notebook, quiet and watchful, the only outsider invited in.
Their ceremony was elegant, simple—so Marlow. She wore an Italian lace gown with a chapel-length veil. Declan wore his Atlanta Strikers uniform, and the Strikers—his groomsmen—wore theirs. I’ve never been a part of something so liberating but welcoming at the same time.
Perfect.
I’m standing with Marlow and Tatum under a tent that looks like a snow globe cracked open. Marlow’s dress catches every light; she looks like the best secret I’ve ever kept.
“You look ridiculous,” I tell her. “In a good way.”
“Stupid-level beautiful,” Tatum adds, eyes wet. “And you can’t even see your baby bump.”
Marlow gasps. “Are you joking?”
“Yes,” Tatum says with a straight face. “You don’t look like you weigh more than a hundred pounds.”
Marlow exhales, then turns to us, voice thick. “You two…thank you. For being my rock. For holding my secrets. I’m going to try not to ever put you in that position again.”
“Noted,” I say, bumping her shoulder. “But if you do, we know where the shovels are.”
She laughs, wipes at the corner of her eye. “And you’re one to talk!” She says, joking and we all laugh again.
Laughing with them has become my favorite pastime.
I glance around the tents, the corners, the shadows. “Whatever happened to Shaun Kennedy? Did Niko find him?”
Marlow scans the field like she’s expecting him to pop out of a cooler, then shrugs. “No one has heard from him in a week.”
That feels too heavy, too ominous for the moment, so I force a half-smile, add a little shrug, and let the words tumble out. “Damn shame what they did to that dog.”
Tatum snorts, then full-on cackles.
Marlow blinks. “I don’t get it!”
“Never mind,” I say. “Next girls’ night, we’re watchingComing to America.”
Arms slide around Marlow’s waist from behind. Declan pulls her into his chest, mouth at her temple. “You ready to go, Senora Agassi?”
Tatum and I both swoon on cue, because we’re not completely made of stone.