Epilogue
Theo
I padded into the kitchen wearing nothing but boxer briefs and Luca’s captain jersey. The fabric was soft from years of wear, the heavy "C" catching the late August sunlight streaming through the windows.
Two months since the championship. Two months of living together in this space that had slowly transformed from "Luca’s apartment" to "ours." My skates were by the door next to his. My protein powder crowded the counter. My terrible taste in romantic comedies infiltrated his Netflix queue.
"You’re wearing my jersey again." Luca’s voice came from behind me, low and rough with sleep.
I turned, grinning. His hair stuck up in three directions, his bare chest marked with faint lines from the sheets, sweatpants riding low on his hips.
Beautiful. Mine.
"Looks better on me," I said.
"You aren't wrong." He crossed the kitchen in three strides, hands sliding under the jersey to grip my waist. His thumbs traced my hip bones, his eyes dark. "But it’s distracting."
"Good." I kissed him, tasting mint toothpaste. I still got a thrill from this—kissing him in broad daylight, in our kitchen, with nothing to hide. "You’re supposed to be distracted. It’s the off-season."
"Technically we report back in two weeks."
"Still the off-season." I pulled back far enough to pour him coffee, adding cream the way he liked it. Easy. The kind of morning ritual I’d fantasized about during those three weeks of secrecy when every touch had been stolen.
Luca accepted the mug. His free hand stayed anchored on my hip like he couldn't stand not touching me. His gaze tracked over the jersey, lingering on the "C."
"I had a dream about you wearing this last night."
"Yeah?" I leaned back against the counter. "What was I doing?"
"Nothing you can do with a separated shoulder." His smile went wicked. "But now that you’re cleared for contact..."
Heat pooled low in my belly. My shoulder had healed perfectly—full range of motion, no surgery required. But Luca had been almost absurdly careful with me since that night, like I might shatter.
"I’m not breakable, Cap."
"I know." But his hand gentled on my waist, his thumb stroking the skin just above my waistband. "Still getting used to not worrying."
The microwave clock read 9:47 AM. We had nowhere to be until tonight’s event—a speaking engagement at a local LGBTQ+ youth hockey clinic that both our agents had enthusiastically supported.
The invitations had started flooding in about two weeks after Luca’s press conference. Youth organizations, Pride events, university panels. We’d accepted a handful—the ones that felt right, the ones where we could actually make a difference.
"What time do we need to leave?" I asked.
"Six." Luca set down his mug. Both hands slid up under the jersey now, mapping my ribs. "So we have all day."
"All day to do what?"
"I have a few ideas." He kissed my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point. "But first you need to eat breakfast. You’re still rebuilding muscle."
I laughed, threading my fingers through his hair. "You sound like the team nutritionist."
"I’m your captain. I’m supposed to take care of you."
"You’re my boyfriend," I corrected. "Different job description."
"Boyfriend." He tested the word, his smile soft. "I like that."
"Better than 'secret hookup'?"
"Considerably." He pulled back, his expression turning serious. "I’m sorry that’s all I could give you for so long."
"Hey." I cupped his face, forcing him to meet my eyes. "We’re past that. You don't have to keep apologizing."
"I know." But guilt still flickered in his gaze—the same guilt that surfaced sometimes late at night when he thought I was asleep. "I just—I wasted so much time being afraid. And you paid for it."
"And now we’re here." I kissed him gently. "In our apartment. Wearing your jersey. With absolutely nothing to hide. That’s what matters."
His arms came around me, pulling me close.
I felt his heartbeat against my chest, steady and sure.
When he’d asked me to move in six weeks ago, I’d said yes before he had finished the sentence.
My lease had been month-to-month anyway, and I’d been spending every night here regardless, sneaking in after team events like we were still hiding even though the whole world knew.
"I love you," Luca said quietly. "I don't say it enough."
"You say it constantly."
"Not with words."
He was right. Luca showed love through action—coffee made exactly how I liked it, my favorite snacks stocked in the pantry, his hand finding mine under restaurant tables, his body angled toward me in every photo like a sunflower tracking light. But hearing the words still made my chest tight.
"I love you too," I said. "Now feed me before I waste away. I’m a growing boy."
He snorted. "You’re twenty-two and built like a brick wall."
"A brick wall who needs breakfast."
We made pancakes together—me mixing batter while Luca handled the griddle.
The kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and butter, sunlight painting gold across the counter.
Through the windows I could see the Chicago skyline, the city we’d claimed as ours when Luca had kissed me publicly with the championship on the line.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Kieran.
Kieran: Stop being disgustingly domestic and confirm you're coming to the barbecue Saturday.
I showed Luca the screen. "You up for Kieran’s place this weekend?"
"If I say no, will he let it go?"
"Absolutely not."
"Then I guess we’re going." But he smiled, flipping a pancake with unnecessary flair. "Is Collins bringing his new girlfriend?"
"Yep. Apparently she’s 'the one.'" I made air quotes.
"He said that about the last one."
"And the one before that." I leaned against his shoulder, breathing him in with contentment. "He’s an optimist."
"Like someone else I know."
I kissed his jaw. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."
"It isn't." Luca plated the pancakes, drowning his in syrup while I added fresh berries to mine. "It’s one of the things I love about you. You make everything feel possible."
We ate at the breakfast bar, knees touching, swapping bites. Domesticity had never seemed appealing before. I’d watched my older sister navigate cohabitation with her husband and it had looked exhausting—all compromise and coordinating schedules.
But this was easy. Natural.
"Your contract came through," Luca said casually, but I caught the pride in his voice.
"Yep." I’d signed it last week—three years, significant raise, guaranteed starting position on the second line. My agent had been thrilled. I’d been more excited about the fact that it meant three more years of playing with Luca. "You’re stuck with me."
"Good." His hand found my thigh under the counter, thumb stroking the inside of my knee. "That was the plan."
"Was it?"
"You think I fought a guy for just anyone?" His smile went crooked. "I knew what I wanted. It just took me a while to be brave enough to take it."
My throat went tight. That fight—Luca dropping the gloves for the first time in his career, getting ejected from the game because I’d taken a hit meant for him.
That was the moment I’d known this was more than attraction.
That was the moment I’d realized he was all-in, even if he couldn't say it yet.
"I’m glad you did," I said. "Take it, I mean."
"Me too." He leaned over and kissed me, tasting like maple syrup. "Best decision I ever made."
We cleaned up together. We loaded the dishwasher while music played from Luca’s phone—classic rock, nothing too loud, the kind of comfortable background noise that filled the space between words. I caught him watching me as I wiped down the counter, his expression unguarded.
"What?"
"Nothing." But his cheeks flushed slightly. "Just—you look good in my kitchen."
"Our kitchen."
"Right." He said it like he was reminding himself. Like he was still getting used to sharing his space. "Our kitchen."
I tossed the dish towel at him. "Stop being weird about it. This is what living together looks like."
"I’ve never..." He caught the towel, fingers twisting in the fabric. "I’ve never done this before. Lived with someone. Never wanted to live with someone."
"Me neither." I crossed to him, sliding my arms around his waist. "But I like it. I like waking up with you. I like your terrible taste in documentaries and the way you organize the fridge by food group and how you always steal the blankets even though you run hot."
"I don't steal the blankets."
"You absolutely do." I kissed the corner of his mouth. "But I forgive you."
His arms tightened around me. "I like this too. More than I thought I would."
"Did you think you wouldn't?"
"I thought..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "I thought letting someone in would feel like losing control. Like I’d have to perform all the time. But with you it’s just..."
"Easy?"
"Yeah." His smile was soft. The smile that was just for me. "Easy."
At 6:15 PM, we pulled into the parking lot of the youth sports complex on the north side.
My stomach fluttered with nerves—public speaking still wasn't my favorite. Luca, of course, looked perfectly composed in dark jeans and a fitted henley, his media face sliding into place as we approached the building.
But his hand found mine in the parking lot. Our fingers laced together. That was real.
Inside, the coordinator—a woman named Sarah with kind eyes and a Pride flag lanyard—greeted us warmly. "Thank you both so much for coming. The kids are beyond excited."
"Happy to be here," Luca said, shaking her hand with easy professionalism.
We were led to a multi-purpose room filled with about thirty kids ranging from ten to seventeen. They wore hockey gear or team shirts, all staring at us with expressions ranging from awe to suspicion to desperate hope.
My chest tightened. These kids—some of them were exactly like I’d been at fifteen. Scared and alone and convinced they had to choose between hockey and honesty.