CHAPTER fifty-eight #13
I stroke my thumb along his cheek.
"Good. You deserve to breathe."
He pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my hair.
"Thank you," he whispers. "I'm so glad you're here, babe."
"Always," I murmur, rubbing slow circles into his back.
We pull apart just enough to kiss — soft, lingering, the kind that settles both of our hearts for a second.
When I draw back, I brush his hair off his forehead.
"Now... can you please eat something?"
He blinks at me. "Right now?"
"Yes, right now," I say, giving him a pointed look. "I'm trying to feed you back to basic human functionality. Your abs are like... one skipped meal away from deflating, and frankly that's my favorite part of you, so I have a vested interest."
He gasps softly, hand to his chest.
"So that's it? I'm just... a piece of meat to you? Wow. Here I was thinking my girlfriend loved me. Turns out she only wants my body."
He even tries to cover his torso with his hands like he's suddenly scandalized.
I snort. "No, I love you as you, but..." I bump my shoulder into his. "Someone has to preserve the important things."
His laugh bursts out, so free and bright it lights up his whole face — and I swear my heart grows three sizes.
He pulls me back into his arms, holding me tight. "God, I fucking love you so much."
I giggle — helpless, warm, already melting. "I love you too."
EPILOGUE ONE
ZACH
Three years later...
There are loud arenas... and then there's this.
Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final, third period, tied, and twenty thousand people are losing their minds so violently it feels like the building is breathing.
Every inch of the ice hums under my skates.
The air is tight, electric, the kind that crawls under your gear and settles straight into your bones.
I've played a lot of big games in my life, but nothing touches this one. Not even last year's Cup run. Not even the night I won Rookie of the Year and felt like the whole world suddenly knew my name.
Back then, all I wanted was to prove I belonged in the league. Now the stakes are different. Bigger. Heavier in a way that somehow calms me instead of shaking me.
I take a hard stride into the offensive zone, loop behind Elijah, feel the puck settle into the rhythm of the play. Everything narrows. Noise falls away. And then I catch his eyes—one quick glance—and I know he's about to feed it to me.
He does.
The pass hits my stick with that clean, perfect little click that still gives me goosebumps.
I cut inside, shoulder low, pushing past a defender who tries to ride me off the lane.
My legs burn, my lungs sting, the Knights' goalie squares up, and I swear time slows just enough for me to see exactly where the puck needs to go.
I flick my wrists.
Top corner.
The net snaps.
And the arena breaks into full-on chaos…
The roar slams into me like a physical force—my teammates crashing in from every angle, bodies colliding, helmets tapping mine, someone yelling in my ear, "HAT TRICK! HOLY—" before getting swallowed by the noise.
I'm laughing, breathless, half-crushed by the pile, but my eyes immediately dart to the first place they always go.
And there she is.
My wife.
Caroline is on her feet, practically vibrating with excitement, one hand braced on the railing, the other waving wildly as if she's trying to flag down aircraft.
Her bump—four months and impossible to miss—is right there under the oversized Panthers jersey with my name on the back, and the sight hits me so hard my chest actually warms inside my pads.
I skate toward her section, still grinning like a fool, and lift my stick toward her—our little thing. She beams, cheeks flushed, curls bouncing, mouthing I love you with so much joy it almost knocks me off balance.
I mouth it back, because how could I not?
She looks like happiness incarnate, the kind that makes you want to win everything just so you can keep giving her reasons to smile like that.
For a second, she bounces too hard on her toes and I genuinely panic she's going to launch herself over the railing. My heart nearly stops.
Pregnant wife energy is wild and unpredictable and, frankly, terrifying. She catches her balance and starts laughing—and God, she's adorable. Radiant and adorable and absolutely the reason I want to skate through a brick wall right now.
My mom sits beside Caroline, already dabbing at her eyes.
Caroline's parents, on the other hand, didn't come tonight.
Not because they couldn't.
Because they volunteered—and I mean aggressively volunteered—to babysit.
Two days ago they practically kicked our front door down, scooped up our one year old son, and said something noble like, "You two deserve quiet time before the championship."
Right.
Uh-huh.
Sure.
Absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they're obsessed with their grandson and wanted him all to themselves.
But, hey—who am I to complain?
Caroline and I did take advantage of the "quiet time."
And by "take advantage," I mean we spent forty-eight hours acting like two hormonally possessed rabbits who just discovered unlimited mating season.
Not my proudest analogy, but... it's honest.
Oh—did I forget to mention that Caroline and I already have our first kid together?
My bad.
But now you know.
Honestly, it shouldn't shock anyone. We've always been overachievers. Some people collect degrees by twenty-five. We collected... children. Two of them, apparently. One in a crib and one currently using my wife's bladder as a trampoline.
I'm grinning like an idiot until my eyes catch the empty seat right beside Caroline.
My smile falters—just a small, involuntary drop—because that empty space belongs to someone important. Someone who should've been here for this night.
And the ache of it settles in my chest, quiet but sharp.
Across the ice, Elijah's gaze flicks to the same empty chair. His jaw tightens. He looks away first, but the crestfallen drop in his face tells me he felt the hit too.
Coach barrels toward us, clapping his hands loud enough to wake the dead.
"Westbrook. Deveraux. Eyes here."
Elijah and I snap to attention. Sweat runs down my spine, my lungs still burning from the last shift, but adrenaline keeps every nerve wide awake.
"There's three minutes left," Coach says, tapping the whiteboard he's clutching. "That is a lifetime in hockey. The Knights are gonna push hard—hell, they're gonna throw their whole damn roster at you. We're not letting them tie this game. Understood?"
We nod.
Coach points his marker at Elijah first. "Deveraux, they're going to try to isolate their top winger on the right side and stretch the zone. You stay glued to him. Mirror him. If he breathes, you know about it."
Elijah smirks. "Yes, sir."
Then Coach turns to me.
"And you—Westbrook. You read everything. You see the ice better than anyone out there. Don't get baited into overcommitting. Keep your stick in the lanes, force turnovers, kill time on the clock. If you get the puck, dump it deep, make them chase. Defense first, offense only if it's free."
I nod, tapping my stick against the ice. "Got it."
Coach grabs both our shoulders, squeezing hard.
"This is it, boys. One good shift. One clean three minutes. Let's bring another cup home."
We bump helmets, skate out, and the arena shifts into that low, vibrating roar—the kind that shakes bones.
Back on the ice, the Vegas Golden Knights win the draw and immediately push into our zone, their first line swarming like they smell blood. Our D-men back up, but Elijah intercepts a pass before it can cross the slot.
He snaps it to me. I tap it back.
We move in perfect, wordless rhythm, the same rhythm we've had since Ridgewater.
Vegas presses harder. Their winger fires a shot from the circle; Sergei blocks it with his shoulder, the rebound bouncing dangerously right in front of the crease.
I get to it first and clear but they're right back on us.
Two minutes left.
Every heartbeat is a gunshot.
Elijah bodies a winger from the other team off the puck; the impact rattles the boards. I scoop it up, sprint down the right side, trying to buy our team a few precious seconds.
But the other team keeps coming.
One minute left.
Their captain winds up for a slapshot.
I lunge, dropping to one knee, eating the shot off my shin pad so hard it sends a shock up my entire leg.
The crowd ROARS.
Elijah taps my shoulder. "Move!"
We scramble back into position as the Knights reorganize, circling our zone like sharks. Their defenseman blasts another shot — Sergei kicks it away, barely.
Thirty seconds left.
They win the loose puck battle in the corner and whip it to the slot.
A Knights forward redirects it. It's going IN until Elijah sacrifices his entire ribcage and throws himself across the ice, blocking the shot with everything he's got.
The arena explodes.
Ten seconds.
The puck rattles loose again — their winger charges in, desperate, stick cocked.
I sprint.
My lungs burn.
My legs feel like fire.
I slam my stick into his, knocking the puck free, pinning it against the boards as the entire clock bleeds out — three seconds. Two. One.
Then the horn BLARES.
The arena erupts.
I drop to my knees on the ice, sucking in air like I just outran death itself.
WE DID IT.
The Panthers bench explodes onto the ice. Helmets flying. Gloves thrown. Sticks lifted.
Elijah grabs me first, yelling right in my ear as he crushes me in a hug.
THE PANTHERS WIN THE STANLEY CUP.
Again.
"THAT'S IT! WE'RE CHAMPIONS AGAIN!"
I'm laughing—loud, breathless, disbelieving—as more of the boys pile onto us.
We're a dogpile of sweat, joy, and absolute chaos.
The Stanley Cup flood music hits. Confetti cannons go off.
And when I stand, chest heaving and vision blurring from tears I'll deny later, I look for her— my wife.
My light.
My whole damn universe.