Epilogue
Noah
My body buzzes with a heavy dose of adrenaline.
It’s a rush I haven’t felt in a long-ass time.
It’s the type of electric energy that could light up Bolts arena all on its own.
That could cure diseases and make a man reckless enough to get down on one knee two months after hard launching a relationship.
It’s the type of energy that makes a person feel immortal.
And it’s exactly how every man in this locker room feels.
Because today we’re playing in the seventh game of the Stanley Cup Finals.
It’s my last game as a Bolt. My last game in the NHL.
And I want this win. With this team. With the men who have become my best friends and, hopefully, future brothers-in-law.
Because yeah, I’m reckless enough to get down on my damn knee. But first things first. It’s time to secure this win.
“Last game,” Brooks says as he settles on the bench beside me.
His headphones are around his neck, but any minute now, he’ll slip them over his ears and start his visualizing.
As a goalie, Brooks has the most stressful job of us all.
He’ll likely be on the ice for all sixty minutes of play while the rest of us will switch out in one-minute shifts.
He’ll come up against two-hundred-pound opponents in head-to-toe gear and block upward of thirty shots sent toward his net.
On average, Brooks lets in one to two per game. Though he’s had quite a few shutouts in his career.
I’m banking on one tonight.
Since the night Ezra was fired, we’ve experienced this lightness, this electricity, this deeper chemistry. Like our bond grew that night and we became more than teammates. We became brothers.
Not just me and the Langfields. Hall, Snow, and War too.
And we’ve brought it back to the ice. To our team. We’re unstoppable.
Sure, Florida has eked out three wins in this series, but all the games have been close. Each one has come down to one flick of a damn wrist or one slip of a skate.
But it’s within our grasp. I’m betting on the Bolts tonight. We’re hungry, we’re in love with the game, and we’re itching to lift that cup over our heads to celebrate the end of a fucking era.
I meet Brooks’s steady gaze. “I’m ready.”
His lips twitch. “I see that.” With a long breath out, he scans the locker room.
War is playing cards with Hall and Snow. They’re laughing loudly, wide smiles on their faces. Aiden is talking with the other center, Keegan, their heads down. Aiden’s no doubt reassuring the kid, who’s playing in his first Stanley finals.
“I think I get it,” Brooks murmurs. “Why you’re done. It’s hard, doing this when I want to be wherever Taylor and Sara are.”
I nod solemnly. I’m not sad about my decision, but I am emotional. I love this game. And I’ll miss it. But not nearly as much as I’ve missed my son during every season for the last six years.
I squeeze his shoulder. “You don’t have to make any decisions tonight.”
His lips lift again and his green eyes light up. “Nah, tonight we’re winning the motherfucking Cup.” With that, he slips on his headphones and heads to his locker to get dressed.
I pull out my phone and dial Sienna. She and Ollie are in the owner’s suite tonight, and I want to talk to them before I shut down and give 100 percent of my energy to this team for the last time.
“Look, it’s Daddy,” Sienna says.
Those words on her lips make my chest swell. I can’t wait until she can say those words to a second child. She stopped the birth control, and we’ve been fucking nonstop, so with any luck, it’ll happen soon.
“Hi, baby,” she says to me, her smile a little wicked, like she knows what her words did to me. Like she knows she’s left me tongue-tied. “Ready for your game?”
The lighthearted way she asks, as if I’m gearing up for a little league tourney, makes me chuckle. “Yeah, butterfly, I’m ready.”
“Is that Sienna?” Aiden slides across the bench and leans over until his face appears in the little box in the corner of the screen.
Ollie settles on Sienna’s lap, and a second later, his face fills the screen. “Hi. Aiden, did you do your song yet?”
My friend grins. “Not yet. Want to stay on the line and watch?”
The little guy’s eyes go wide. “Is that allowed?”
“For you?” Aiden winks. “Of course.”
“How ’bout we put it over here so all the kids can see?
” Sienna reappears, and then she’s moving.
When she props up the device, I can pick out each of the kids in the suite.
Mav sits in my sister’s lap, the two of them wearing matching jerseys.
The smaller Langfield cousins are running around with War’s youngest kids.
Brayden stopped by the locker room earlier.
The kid is sixteen and obsessed with hockey.
He has the potential to go pro. Who knows, maybe he’ll be a Bolt one day.
Addie settles in beside Sienna, probably excited about Aiden’s song, since she’s just as hockey-obsessed as all of her uncles.
“They’re ready for you,” Sienna says.
Nodding, Aiden jumps up on the bench. “All right. This is a special one,” he hollers, getting the whole team’s attention. “It’s Harry’s last game, which means it’s the last time that this group of guys will ever play on the ice together.” He scans the room, letting those words sink in.
Goose bumps prickle down my spine. The guys around me are all lit up, eyes bright and full of energy. Tonight is it. The last one.
“It has been a ducking honor to play with you.” He winks at the screen, letting them know he’s keeping it PG—the Langfield way—then lifts his chin in my direction.
“Now, for our last song, I give you the Bolts version of ‘Blank Space.’”
By the time he gets to the chorus of the Taylor Swift–inspired song, every person in the room is cheering and dancing with him.
“We’ll make the Bolts last forever
We won’t go down in flames
This season ain’t even over, mm-mm
The Stanley Cup is worth the pain
Three periods till we’re legends
We’re chasing eternal fame
’Cause we know we’re the best players
And we love this game
Hall’s young and War’s reckless
Harry will take us far
Brooks will leave you breathless, mm-mm
Snow might get a nasty scar
Three periods till we’re legends
We’re chasing eternal fame
’Cause we know we’re the best players
And we love this game!”
When it’s over, the noise in the room is deafening.
On screen, Sienna is beaming. I pick my phone up and mouth an I love you. Then I tap my heart for Ollie. “See you after the game.”
Reality doesn’t set in until the last ten minutes.
Win or lose—and it’s looking a lot like this will go in our favor—these are my last ten minutes on the ice as a player in the NHL.
One of the rookies chirps, “I don’t want to say it, but—”
Aiden hits him in the chest, knocking him back a step. “Don’t say it.”
“But Brooks is—”
I glare at him. “Shut the fuck up.”
Huffing, he bites down on his mouth guard, a bad habit half the league suffers from.
War looks at me, his expression saying exactly what the kid was thinking.
Is it possible that Brooks will really pull off a shutout in game seven of the Stanley Cup?
It sure fucking looks like it.
Shit. That’s the stuff of legends. It’d be an incredible way to go out, too, if Brooks is serious.
I shake my head. Just like I told him, this is not the time to think about that.
Right now, my focus needs to be locked on Hall and Snow, who are zig-zagging down the ice, setting up Keegan for a goal.
We’re up 1-0, so it’s still an incredibly close game.
Hall passes it to Snow, who slaps it toward the net. But it bounces off the goalpost.
That’s our cue. Heart racing, I launch myself over the boards and hustle over to replace Hall.
War gets a hold of the puck with a nasty swipe at one of Florida’s guys and passes it to me.
I’ve been on the ice for less than ten seconds when I’m set up to snipe the shot.
With Aiden on the ice, the defense’s primary goal is to stop him.
It makes sense; the kid’s stick work is sick. He truly is a legend already.
His reputation works in our favor. It means Florida’s not ready to defend against me all the way over here. I’m set up so far to the left that most players wouldn’t even consider attempting what I’m about to do.
But War and I have played this exchange for years, and muscle memory has me pulling back my arm and slashing the puck across the ice, between Aiden’s legs—with the help of a very well-timed jump—and past the goalie glove.
When it hits the back of the net, the raucous cheers and chants that go up both on and off the ice are deafening.
I throw my hands up, allowing myself to celebrate what is likely my last goal. Then I brace myself to be the middle component of a War-Aiden sandwich.
After a few claps on the back, I tap my heart and point to the owner’s suite, then fold my hands into the sign for a butterfly, letting the two most important people in my life know that this goal was for them.
My heart is still pounding as I take the bench again. It doesn’t slow as I watch Brooks defend our goal. A minute later, I’m back on the ice, doing my job.
As the clock counts down, every single one of us skates our asses off, and when the buzzer sounds, we’ve left it all out on the ice. We gave it our all.
“Motherfucking champions,” War howls as the two of us skate toward our goalie, who just pulled off one of the biggest games of his career.
Thanks to Brooks’s shutout, the Bolts win the Stanley Cup 2-0.
Sara’s screams can be heard above everyone in the crowd as she darts out onto the ice. But I’m preoccupied, waiting for the two pieces of my heart to get here.
When they finally appear, Sienna’s face is tearstained, her hand locked around Ollie’s. They rush toward me, and because she’s the best damn woman in the world, she lets my son go in for a hug first. “You stink.” He leans back, holding out a hand to stop Sienna. “Don’t do it. Save yourself.”