Epilogue
The Seattle Icehawks are on fire.
Seven wins in a row, and West is playing like he’s possessed. Like he’s found some secret formula that makes everything click. His passes sharper, his shots more accurate, his entire presence on the ice radiating the kind of confidence that makes opposing teams nervous.
I know what his secret formula is.
It’s the same reason I’m sitting in the stands wearing his jersey, cheering so loudly that Tessa keeps giving me concerned looks like I might damage my vocal cords.
It’s the same reason he looks up at our section after every goal, every assist, every good play, searching for my face in the crowd like he needs to make sure I’m still there.
It’s happiness. Pure, uncomplicated happiness.
“That’s my brother!” Tessa screams as West scores his second goal of the night, his celebration skate taking him right past our section.
“Go Uncle!” Charlie adds, bouncing in her seat.
“That’s my boyfriend!” I shout and immediately feel ridiculous for yelling it like a teenager.
But I don’t care. Let everyone know. Let the entire arena know that West Carmack is mine and I’m his and we’re disgustingly happy about it.
The third goal comes in the final minute, sealing the win and completing West’s first hat trick of the season.
The crowd goes insane. Actual hats rain down on the ice. The goal horn blares so loudly I can feel it in my chest.
And West, my beautiful, talented, perfect boyfriend, skates straight to our section and points directly at me.
At me.
Like I’m the reason he’s having the best season of his career.
Like I’m the reason he’s flying around the ice like he could play forever.
Like I’m his good luck charm and his celebration and his everything all rolled into one.
“Oh my god,” Tessa says, nudging me with her elbow. “You two need to get a room. So gross.”
“We’re not gross.”
“You’re the grossest. Look at your face. You look like you’re about to cry from happiness.”
“I am about to cry from happiness.”
“Gross.”
But she’s smiling when she says it, and when West blows a kiss toward our section, she cheers just as loudly as I do.
After the game, after the interviews and the team celebrations and all the post-game chaos, I text him from the parking lot: Come home fast. I’ve got a surprise.
His response is immediate: On my way. Give me twenty minutes.
Take your time. I need to get ready.
Ready for what?
You’ll see.
Tessa and the kids go their Airbnb, and I drive home with a plan forming in my head. A ridiculous, probably insane plan that involves his jersey and his old equipment and the kind of celebration that definitely can’t happen in public.
At home, I dim all the lights and put on music that’s soft and sexy and perfect for what I have in mind.
Then I go to our bedroom and strip down to nothing.
Well, almost nothing.
I put on his away jersey. It’s the white one with his name and number across the back and nothing else except for one crucial addition.
His old hockey skates.
The ones he wore in junior league, before he went pro, before he became the West Carmack who scores hat tricks and makes crowds lose their minds.
I find his old hockey stick in the closet and lean against it like I’m posing for the world’s most ridiculous sports calendar.
This is ridiculous. This is the kind of thing that exists only in male fantasies.
But I don’t care. He just had the best game of his season, and I want to celebrate him. I want to celebrate us. I want to celebrate the fact that this is our life now. His victories are my victories, his happiness is my happiness, his success is something I get to be part of.
I hear his car in the driveway, then his key in the lock, then his voice calling my name.
“Liv? Where are you?”
“Bedroom!” I call back, adjusting the jersey so it hits exactly where I want it to.
“What’s the surprise? Did you order pizza? Please tell me you ordered pizza because I’m starving and—”
He appears in the doorway and stops dead.
Just stops.
His mouth falls open. His eyes go wide. His hockey bag slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a thud.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
“Congratulations on the hat trick,” I say, twirling the hockey stick like a baton.
“What are you—how did you—is that my jersey?”
“Your jersey. Your skates. Your stick.”
“My stick?”
“I thought I’d warm you up before your post-game shower.”
His brain visibly short-circuits. I can practically see the moment all higher cognitive function shuts down and he’s operating on pure instinct.
“You’re wearing my jersey,” he says, like he’s trying to process the information.
“I’m wearing your jersey.”
“And skates.”
“And skates.”
“And nothing else. Jesus Christ, Liv.”
“Too much?”
“No. Never too much.”
He crosses the room in three strides, and I barely have time to set the hockey stick aside before he’s pulling me into his arms.
“This is the best surprise in the history of surprises,” he says against my lips.
“Better than pizza?”
“So much better than pizza.”
“Better than winning?”
“I am winning.”
He kisses me then, hard and desperate and full of adrenaline that’s still coursing through his system from the game.
“I love you,” he says, his hands finding the hem of the jersey. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too. My hat trick hero.”
“Your hat trick hero?” He raises his brow.
I laugh. “My everything hero.”
“That’s better.”
We fall onto the bed in a tangle of hockey jersey and lingering adrenaline, and I can taste the victory on his lips, feel the satisfaction in the way he touches me.
“You were incredible tonight,” I tell him as he trails kisses down my neck.
“You were incredible every night.”
I chuckle. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing makes sense when you’re wearing my jersey.”
“Good thing I plan to wear it a lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Every game. Every practice. Every time you want to remember that you’re mine.”
“I never forget that I’m yours.”
What happens next is playful and intense and everything I hoped it would be. He’s gentle with the skates, careful not to hurt me, but there’s something about the whole scenario that drives him completely wild.
“This is crazy,” he says, laughing as he tries to navigate around the hockey equipment.
“Good crazy or bad crazy?” I ask.
“The best crazy.”
“I thought you might like it.”
He slides in and out of me, pushing my knees to my chest. “I love it. I love you. I love everything about this.”
I look at the skates, moaning, “Even the skates?”
“They’re perfect.”
“You’re perfect.”
“We’re perfect.”
“We really are.”
He picks up his pace and then turns me over. He kisses my shoulders, moaning and sliding back in. “We really are…”
Afterward, we lie tangled together, the jersey pushed up around my waist, his hands tracing lazy patterns on my skin.
“Best post-game celebration ever,” he says.
“Better than celebrating with the guys after?”
He nods. “Better than anything, baby.”
“Good. Because I have a feeling we’re going to have a lot more games to celebrate.”
“This season’s going to be incredible.” He smiles, kissing me. “I’ve got you. I get to come home to you after every game. I get to share all of this with you.”
“I love you, West Carmack.”
“I love you too, Liv Rodriguez. But you should probably take those skates off before one of us gets hurt.”
I sit up and take them off. “I aim to please.”
“You definitely please. Are you hungry?”
I smile. “There’s food in the microwave for you.”
He shoots out of bed. “Fuck, you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”
I chuckle watching him run through the house naked.
I take a quick shower, and when I return to bed, he’s eating on top of the blankets.
“Hey,” he smiles.
I walk over and get into bed. “Good?”
He nods. “Delicious. Thank you.”
He offers me a bite, but I already brushed my teeth. Then he puts the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, showers, and then joins me in bed.
He pulls me into his chest, and we’re quiet for a few minutes.
“Are you awake?” he asks after some time.
“Yeah,” I murmur with my eyes closed.
“I've been thinking about something.”
“What?”
His fingers trace along my shoulder blade, gentle and absent-minded. “About how this all started. Those weddings. All that fake dating we did.”
I open my eyes and turn to look at him. “Yeah? What about it?”
“I realized that the only thing that was fake about any of it was me pretending I wasn’t already completely gone for you.”
My heart does something acrobatic in my chest. “West.”
“I'm serious. The only thing that was fake was me pretending it was fake. None of it was fake. It wasn’t fake for me.”
“It wasn’t fake for me either.”
He laughs, pulling me into him. “I love you. And I'm really glad we’re together.”
“Me too."
As I drift off to sleep in his arms, I think about how sometimes the best things in life start as lies and become the most honest truths you've ever lived.
How sometimes pretending to love someone teaches you what loving them for real actually feels like.
How sometimes the fake thing becomes the realest thing you've ever had.
And how sometimes, if you're really lucky, you get to stop pretending and start living the truth instead.
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