Epilogue
. . .
Six months later
Apparently, dating a local hero means people stop asking if you’re single and start asking if you can get them tickets.
I’ve been totally immersed in Friday night games, Saturday morning pancakes, and Jude leaving his hockey tape on my kitchen counter despite having his own place. Just being us.
The Bobcats are still winning. Jude’s still playing defense like he was born for it. But something unexpected happened after the fundraiser. He started coaching.
The youth league approached him first. Then Dad got involved.
Then somehow it became this whole community initiative called “Blades & Beats,” combining hockey lessons with music rhythm training for kids.
Jude teaches the skating and stick work.
I handle the rhythm portion. It’s chaotic and loud and exactly the kind of thing that makes Briarwood feel like home.
We’re both thrilled about it. Love it, actually.
Until the league PR team arrives to film a promotional documentary called “The Heart of Briarwood.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” Jude mutters, watching the camera crew set up lights around the rink.
“You literally signed a form,” I remind him.
“I thought it was a waiver.”
“It was a release.”
He looks like he’s calculating escape routes.
The PR director, a woman named Monica with a clipboard and entirely too much enthusiasm, claps her hands. “Okay, Jude! We’re going to get some footage of you working with the kids. Just act natural!”
“Natural,” he repeats flatly.
“Yes! Like you normally are!”
“This is how I normally am.”
Monica’s smile tightens. “Maybe with a bit more energy?”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Jude catches my eye and glares.
“Smile, Bruiser,” I whisper.
“I am.”
“That’s a threat.”
“Same difference.”
The kids arrive and the chaos begins immediately. Emma’s wearing her full hockey gear plus a tutu. Rusty brought drumsticks for some reason. Lily and Kayla are wearing matching jerseys but opposite colored helmets, which defeats the entire purpose of their mother’s color-coding system.
“Alright, everyone!” Monica calls. “We’re going to film Coach Jude helping you with basic skating. Just be yourselves!”
Being themselves turns out to be a disaster.
Within five minutes, one kid falls trying to skate backward and takes out two others like bowling pins.
Another tries to hit the puck with the triangle beater from music class because he “thought it would work better.” And somehow, Rusty slams into the boards so hard he triggers the sprinkler system.
Water rains down on half the rink.
The camera crew scrambles to protect their equipment. Kids are shrieking and laughing. Monica looks like she’s reconsidering her career choices.
I’m off to the side, doubled over, laughing so hard I can’t breathe.
Jude just stands there in the middle of the chaos, water dripping from his hair, and deadpans directly to the camera, “This is why I play defense.”
Even Monica laughs at that.
They get the sprinklers turned off eventually. Towel down the equipment. Try again.
This time it goes better. Jude works with Emma on her stance.
Helps Rusty with his grip. Shows the twins how to pass the puck back and forth.
He’s patient and clear and surprisingly good at this.
When one of the smaller kids gets frustrated and wants to quit, Jude crouches down and says something that makes the kid smile and try again.
The cameras catch all of it.
Afterward, Monica corners us both near the bench.
“That was perfect!” she gushes. “We’re turning this into a commercial for the league’s new community initiative.”
Jude looks horrified. “I didn’t sign up for that.”
“You smiled on film for the first time in recorded history,” I tell him. “They’re not letting that go.”
“We want to use the footage of you teaching that six-year-old how to hold a stick,” Monica continues, “while Sophie counts beats in the background. It’s gold. Pure gold.”
“What’s the tagline?” I ask, because I can see Jude’s about to bolt.
Monica beams. “Coach Bruiser: Where Heart Meets Ice.”
I lose it. Just completely lose it. I’m laughing so hard I have to sit down.
Jude stares at me. “You told them about the nickname.”
“I absolutely did not!”
“Finn did,” Monica admits cheerfully. “But it’s perfect! It’s tough but approachable. Masculine but caring.”
“I’m moving to Alaska,” Jude announces.
“You still owe me from our last skating bet,” I remind him. “You’re contractually obligated to stay.”
“That’s not legally binding.”
“Try me.”
A week later, the whole town gathers at the rink for the video premiere. They’ve set up a projector on the ice. Brought in chairs and hot cocoa. It’s like the fundraiser all over again but with more anticipation.
The lights dim. The video starts.
It’s actually beautiful. The footage shows kids learning to skate, laughing, falling, getting back up. It shows Jude being patient and encouraging. Shows him smiling when my voice in the background says “good job” after someone nails a rhythm.
The crowd is eating it up. Parents are getting misty-eyed. The kids are pointing at themselves on screen and giggling.
The last shot is Jude, crouched down with a kid, tapping the triangle with a beater stick while the kid counts beats. They’re both concentrating hard. Then they nail it together and both grin.
The tagline appears: “Find your rhythm. Find your heart. The Briarwood Bobcats.”
The place erupts in applause.
Jude groans and drops his head into his hands.
“I’m never living this down,” he mutters.
“Nope,” I say cheerfully, sliding closer. “You’re officially wholesome.”
“This is your fault.”
“My fault? I didn’t make you good with kids.”
“You made me soft.”
“You were always soft. I just helped you show it.”
He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me close. “You’re the reason they caught me smiling.”
“You’re the reason I can’t stop.”
He kisses me right there in front of everyone. The crowd applauds again. The kids start banging their triangles in rhythm, which turns into chaos immediately but somehow feels perfect.
Finn yells from somewhere in the back, “Look at Hollywood over there!”
Jude pulls back just enough to smirk. “Coach Bruiser, actually.”
Later, after the crowd disperses and the kids are picked up by their parents, it’s quiet again. The lights on the ice glow soft and blue. We walk hand in hand, passing a few stragglers still practicing their stick work.
“You realize you’re the star of a commercial now,” I say.
“You realize I did it for you, right?”
“Sure. For me. Not for the six-year-old who called you Triangle Guy.”
“Kid’s got good instincts.”
We pass the music stand where someone left a triangle. Jude picks it up, grabs the beater, and dings it once.
I laugh. “Still on beat.”
“Only when you’re counting.”
He sets it down and takes my hand again. We walk toward the exit, the sound of the rink settling into nighttime quiet behind us.
“You know what I figured out?” he says.
“What?”
“On the ice I’m always getting or giving a hit. I like our own tempo.”
I stop walking. Look up at him. “That was surprisingly poetic.”
“I have my moments.”
“You’ve been practicing that line, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
I kiss him. Long and sweet and full of promise.
“For the record,” I murmur against his lips, “I’m keeping tempo with you forever, Bruiser.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
And I’m so happy he wants to be in our little small town with me.
I hope you fell in love with Jude and Sophie!
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