Epilogue
LONDON IN LATE JUNE
CALUM
London is a sight for sore eyes. Six months since I last saw it sparkle at night, I bet it’s just as stunning on this summer evening. The thing about hockey players is that we’re goal oriented. That means I barely notice.
I’m so locked in on Valentin.
He’s why I don’t stare up at Big Ben like usual or watch the London Eye make its slow revolutions beside the river. Tonight, I’m so focussed that even Tower Bridge doesn’t register until my cab is halfway across it, and I only lock in even harder once my driver drops me at the foot of a red carpet.
Valentin should be on it.
Reporters pounce before I can locate the prettiest sight in this whole city.
Believe me, I try to deke them, but like Valentin, they’re tenacious.
At least they aren’t here to stalk me the same way Lito Dixon once did under party fireworks to snap the photos that almost cut short my Christmas.
Like me, these reporters are guests, here to celebrate a form of journalism.
That doesn’t stop them from firing questions in my direction.
“Hey, Calum!” one reporter calls out. “How would you rate your season after having so little ice time?”
How would I rate my season?
If I had scorecards, I know what number I’d award to the isolation an NDA and not wanting to worry my folks forced on me.
I’d give that bullshit a big fat zero. Everything that came after I found Valentin trying to save an unborn duckling deserves a different number.
A rock solid ten out of ten, because he saved me too. It’s that plain and simple.
I give this reporter a less personal answer.
“I’d rate this season as a real challenge. Couldn’t have got through it without my team.”
I keep scanning the crowds, searching for a jaw as sharp as any skate blade, and for dark eyes that never miss a thing. Camera flashes mean I’m blinded, still blinking when another reporter calls out.
“How about next season? How are your contract negotiations going?”
It’s getting near my July 1st expiration date. What happens next depends on what Valentin tells me later. For now, I settle for saying, “I’m not here on hockey business.” It’s so good to add, “I’m here for my partner.”
That’s my definition for someone who stayed to face the fallout of his revelation.
Valentin also stayed for the days when a legal team slammed me so hard against contractual boards that I almost buckled.
It was him who rallied his subscribers to keep asking questions.
Valentin kept grinding to score me a last-chance intervention, and he was the first person I saw after I got it.
Tonight, I finally see him again. His dark gaze glitters like the city does behind him, and he isn’t alone at the far end of this red carpet. His own team flanks him, Jack on one side and Seb on the other, who tilts his head to the left. Seb’s eyes narrow, and I see who he’s noticed.
Lito Dixon.
For once, London’s scuzziest photographer doesn’t wield a camera.
He clutches an invite for a glitzy event where he’s a guest of honour.
That took some planning and deception, but Jack was right—Lito couldn’t resist the lure of walking a red carpet as a VIP for once.
When he spots my arrival, Lito also can’t resist scuttling away into the building, but that’s perfect.
None of us are done yet with that cockroach, and inside that building is exactly where we want him.
For now, I make the most of this audience of reporters.
“I’m here for my partner because I know how much being asked to present this year’s Juno Award means to him.
Yes, he’s aged out of this contest, but the judges also inviting him tonight to screen his latest project proves they know what I do—that no one chases the truth harder than him.
His work is the sole reason I’ll get to watch that screening with all of you. ”
Valentin is also my inspiration to unzip my lips about my own work.
“All of his projects focus on exploitation. That challenged me to do the same, which means speaking up for players. Because even with union support, and with recent changes to league-wide bargaining agreements, we still don’t always have the final say in our health decisions.
Giving players that freedom at a league level would cost nothing but could improve our health outcomes.
The payback for the sport we all love could be massive. That’s worth fighting for, I think.”
Valentin inspired me to grind as hard as him for that outcome. He’s just as inspiring once we’re all inside a film institute building.
The lights drop, and I’m not alone in drawing in a breath as a spotlight finds him holding a silver trophy.
Valentin’s dad draws in a breath right beside me.
He knows the same as I do. His son could have won that cup with his name on it.
Tonight, we both watch him present it to another filmmaker, then blow every entry out of the water by screening his latest project.
Another gasp comes from a seat in the row ahead.
Lito has spotted who features in Valentin’s latest exposé—his own face, complete with snowy nostrils, fills a huge screen.
Thank fuck my surgery was just as successful as little Violet’s. It means I get to witness the star of this drug-dealing documentary sink low into his seat like that will hide him from his sins.
I keep my eyes fixed on Lito instead of on what Valentin’s camera captured at a boat show the same day I met him. I don’t need to watch it. I’ve already seen this footage and so has Valentin’s father. He growls when the version of Lito on the screen starts weaselling.
“You can’t leave without giving me one little Christmas kiss.”
A room full of journalists and filmmakers watch him grab Valentin by the elbow, and I’ve never come closer to dropping my mitts while off the ice.
I rein in that urge—Valentin doesn’t need me to fight his battles. He won the moment he set that red light blinking on his GoPro. It caught Lito digging his own professional grave.
“I’m not letting you go yet,” he says in audio so clear I can almost feel grease. “Not before we finish our little chat about your career. One studio session with me could make you famous. All you need to do is ask me nicely.”
In the row ahead, Lito starts to slide out of his seat. That slimy fuck doesn’t get far.
There’s no way I’ll let him slink away from his actions. I land a hand on one of his shoulders. Valentin’s dad grasps the other. We both shove him back down, but it’s my older brother who hisses, “Sit the fuck down, Dixon.”
Reece and Pat hem in Lito, and there’s no way he’s getting past either of them, not when Trelawneys commit by going all in for our special people. Tonight, that means we surround Lito so he has to watch his own downfall.
It starts with an admission. Valentin highlights it by adding subtitles so any speakers of French can’t mistake what Lito says in English.
“I’ll even sweeten the deal by giving you a discount on some party powder.”
There’s no way he can deny making that offer, like I can’t deny it’s been tough to spend the end of this season apart from Valentin, but the payoff is fucking magic.
A final split screen shows Lito dealing in a boat-show bathroom, caught over and over by a hidden camera. The other side of the screen shows Valentin playing that footage to the police officers who are also guests here.
I know that Christmas won’t come for another six months. I’m not sure I’ll get another present as good as watching Lito get arrested as soon as the lights rise.
At least, I think nothing will top seeing him led away in handcuffs, but my evening gets even better once Valentin finishes tying legal loose ends, and we head for Kensington together.
We’re late for a celebration dinner, but before we reach the restaurant where our families will be waiting, Valentin stops to check a message.
He snorts, his face lit by his phone. “Harry says that Dad’s duck has been looking for him all evening.
” That bird is so attached to the very first human it laid eyes on after hatching.
“He says she keeps swimming around his houseboat quacking for him.” He shows me a smile worth waiting months for, but there’s one thing I can’t wait for any longer.
I kiss him and it doesn’t matter who sees.
“Watch out,” he jokes. “Anyone could be taking photos.”
“Don’t care.”
I kiss him again because I don’t need to hide this. “Most Brits don’t follow hockey. They won’t be interested in an ex-player.”
“Ex-player?”
There’s an alley close by. If we were in its shadows, I wouldn’t get to witness his reaction. Tonight, light spilling from Penny’s restaurant shows me the same concern I first saw when he worried over an egg. Care follows right behind it.
For me.
So does fierceness. “Is this about who you might want to sign with next? Your agent said she’d negotiate—”
I don’t need Valentin to chase this truth for me. “There won’t be any more negotiating, with anyone. I pulled out. I’m done.”
“Not with the game.”
“Never.”
The same smile that started every video call while we were divided by the Atlantic starts to spread. Without Valentin, I wouldn’t get to see it, or what plays out across the street from us.
If the chef who joins Penny is responsible for the bruschetta she serves our parents, I’m pretty sure there won’t be anything burnt about it. Robin must say something complimentary—she turns a pretty pink and goes up on her tiptoes to kiss him.
“I wouldn’t have seen that without you.”
Valentin finds my hand, no need to hide that he threads us tight together. “You would have found a way.”
“Nope. Not without penalties that could have cost other people. None of us had to pay that price because you spoke up when I couldn’t.” That’s a good enough reason to kiss him again. “I’ll always love you for that.”
Valentin’s so pretty when he’s happy. He’s also flustered, which plays out en francais. “Je t’aime plus.” I’m close enough to see that he isn’t done worrying for me. “But I remember what you told me. You wanted to bring home one more ring.”
“And I will. Look.” The ring I pull from my pocket isn’t diamond studded. It’s the opposite of gaudy, but it does have an emblem he recognises.
“The cliffs at Land’s End.”
“Yes.” I hold a relatively small circle made from gold mined in Cornwall.
Tonight, it feels heavier than any trophy I’ve ever lifted.
“This is the last ring I want to bring home. Building a rink with the person who wears it might take a while. Hunting down a team of reject players with him could take even longer. Years, Valentin.”
If both of our families watch me go down on one knee, I don’t notice. I’m a hockey player, remember? We’re goal oriented. Valentin is my sole focus, the one person I’d shoot this shot for.
“Want to come to the end of the world with me to document it?”
He doesn’t answer, and time stops.
I really hope I do better than Lito Dixon at adding sweeteners to this deal.
“Cornwall has ducks. Pretty sure I could find another egg for you to keep warm.”
Valentin smiles, blinking fast, his eyes damp and shiny, so I keep going.
“And I’ve been thinking about ordering another speedboat or seven.”
Now his eyes laugh, and I get the same rush as when a breakout play goes right. That helps me to grind even harder.
“Just so you know, I’m open to spite sex anytime you want it.”
He laughs out loud, and I love to hear it. I also love making this final offer.
“And I’ll learn to cook mouclade.” I tilt my head at a restaurant window. It frames another chef sharing a meal with his own husband as I try to convince Valentin to be mine. “Guy says he’ll teach me. Marry me, and I’ll cook it for you every Christmas.”
Who knows what Valentin says next in French.
I don’t need to be fluent to know what him sliding my ring onto his finger tells me.
That’s a win in any language.
The End