Epilogue
HAPPY
If you listen hard enough, I bet you could hear a fucking toothpick hit the floor in the locker room right now.
The energy throughout the space is steely, thick, and intense, palpable with a myriad of conflicting emotions as Coach Draper stands in the center of the room, hands on his hips, chomping his gum as he looks around at each and every one of us.
“Ninety-five games,” he says. “Ninety-five games full of blood, sweat, and tears. Body checks. Bare knuckle fist fights. Injuries. Wins. Losses.”
I stare down at the floor, taking in his words.
“Ninety-five games, and it all boils down to this moment right here. Game seven of round fucking two of the playoffs.”
Someone claps. No one else joins in.
“From finishing up at the bottom of the division last year, for the third year in a row, to this!”
I lift my gaze from the floor to see Coach raising his arms, as if to emphasize our surroundings.
And he has a point. We clinched round one against Halifax, four-two.
Going into round two against Boston, no one, least of all us, expected to get out of game four alive.
Yet, here we are. Game fucking seven. Tied three all at the final siren.
Coach smirks. “I don’t know about you guys, but when the season started, this sure as shit ain’t where I thought we’d end up.”
Someone sniffs a laugh.
“But we’re here,” Coach Draper continues. “And we’re here because we fucking earned our place. We’re a playoffs team, and whatever happens out there on that ice in the next twenty minutes, win or lose, no one can take this moment away from us.”
I nod because Coach is right.
As I look around at my teammates, the men who have become my brothers—Dallas, Robbie, Logan, even fucking Rusty, the hairy asshole—I can’t help but smile because we earned our place here tonight, and we did it as a team.
“And I want you boys to know that whatever happens out there”—Coach pauses to look around at all us, making eye contact with every player as he scans the room—“I am so fucking proud of how far we’ve come, of what we’ve achieved as a team.
” Coach nods, but then he smacks his fist against his chest a few times, clearing his throat.
“And I am so fucking honored to be standing up here right now as your coach,” he adds, his voice cracking with obvious yet unexpected emotion.
Clapping his hands, riling every one of us, he turns around the circle. “Now let’s get out there and do this thing!”
“I’m fuckin’ tired, brother!” Mason shouts over the roar of the crowd as we take a break on the bench.
I nod, squirting water into my mouth and rinsing before spitting it out.
I check the time on the clock. Six minutes left. Boston is holding strong, but so are we. Turnover after turnover, the play has been relentless, both Dallas and Boston’s goalie, Markovic, being pushed to their limits, stopping shot after brutal shot.
“We’re still in this,” Logan yells. “We can’t give up!”
When Boston ices the puck, there’s a whistle change, and we climb over the boards and skate out onto the ice, lining up for the puck drop.
Rusty snatches the puck, cradling it against his blade and spins, but right as he does, he’s checked hard by Boston’s right winger and falls back, colliding hard against the ice.
He’s okay, but the ref calls a penalty, sending the offender to the box to the tune of an ear-splitting cheer from the home crowd.
I check the time; four minutes left with a powerplay advantage. This is ours. It’s fucking ours.
Lining up again, the puck drops, but Rusty isn’t quite quick enough to snag it this time, Boston’s center securing the puck and handing it off to the winger who takes off toward our zone.
Logan swoops in from the left, extending his stick and stealing the puck.
I close in behind him, my eyes flitting around to defend the play as Logan stops, ice shards spraying up in his haste.
But just when it looks like he’s about to go for the goal, he hands it off to our winger, Josef.
Josef taps it toward the net, but Markovic’s big body twists in an unnatural way, stopping the shot at the last second with the blade of his skate.
“Fuck!” Josef shouts, shaking his head to himself, clearly pissed.
Boston’s D-man secures the puck, rounding the back of the net before handing it off to the center, who breaks out of the line and skates back toward our zone.
I get into position, watching the puck like a fucking hawk, but just before he’s checked by Robbie, he passes it back to their D-man, where it’s intercepted by Logan, who came out of fucking nowhere, collecting it with his backhand.
Logan pivots and looks to snap it toward the boards, but as he curls back his stick, Boston’s rookie, Callaghan, quick as fucking lightening all goddamn night, gets a perfect read and closes the last few feet with a sudden burst, stick extended, snatching the puck at the last second.
“Chrissake!” Logan yells, spinning around and tearing up behind Callaghan.
Mason sprints up the left side, and all I can do is watch, held back by the Boston winger, trying to break out of the corner, watching as Callaghan threads a no-look feed straight into the crease.
I break free from the corner just in time, but Dallas reads the shot and stops it with his blade, but Boston’s center is there for the rebound, catching it in his stride, and without hesitation, he loads a quick-release snap shot.
I dive, stretching my body and my stick across the ice, but the puck sails past my blade, grazing Dallas’s glove and hits the far side of the net with a hollow, devastating slap.
For a beat, Madison Square Garden falls deathly silent.
But then the siren rings, and the Boston players celebrate their goal, gloves, sticks, and helmets tossed as a rush of red, green, and navy piles in front of the net.
I fall to my knees, dropping my head between my shoulders, the weight of the loss and the sudden end to our season looming heavily as I think of everything I could’ve done, everything I should’ve done differently during the last few minutes.
Forcing myself up, I skate over to tap Dallas before joining my teammates and lining up to shake hands with Boston, when suddenly something happens, something I don’t think any of us were expecting.
Instead of filing out of the arena disappointed, the home crowd is on their feet, and they’re chanting, clapping their hands, humming the tune to our theme song, “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC.
“Thunder!”
“Thunder!”
“Thunder!”
The guys and I gather around, looking up into the crowd of black and silver, enamored by the scene that’s playing out high up into the nosebleeds, every single Thunder fan cheering us despite our loss.
“If they can be happy for us, I guess we can’t be too hard on ourselves, guys,” Rusty says, slapping a few of us on our backs.
“Let’s do a lap,” Robbie says, waving everyone with him.
And we follow, removing our helmets and our gloves, circling the rink and clapping with the crowd.
I stop by the glass where a group of young fans stand, cheering us on, and I hand my stick over to one of the boys, feeling my spirits rise when I see his face light up like all his Christmases just came at once.
And, sure, we may not have won, and we may have just ended our season, but this is exactly what Coach was talking about back in the locker rooms. We earned our place here tonight, and it might not have ended the way we’d hoped, but we’re still here, we still made it, and that’s worth celebrating in and of itself. No one can take this away from us.
“Daddy!”
I turn at the sound of the familiar voice, my eyes blowing out at the sight of Hannah treading the ice carefully, Lucky holding her hand as she skids unsteadily, followed by all the other players’ wives and girlfriends and kids.
“Lucky Duck!” I beam, skating toward her and collecting her in my arms, holding her way up high.
“I’m sorry you didn’t win, Daddy,” Lucky says with a sad smile.
“Thanks, baby girl, but it’s okay,” I tell her, and I mean it. Because it is okay.
I reach out my arm and wrap it around Hannah’s waist, bringing her into my side.
“I’m so proud of you.” Hannah smiles up at me. “Next year.”
“Next year.” I nod, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her lips as the arena continues to erupt with cheers all around us.
Instead of heading out to a bar to join the guys while they drown their sorrows and talk about the loss all night, I decided to go home with my two favorite girls.
We changed into our pajamas and planned on settling in to watch a movie. But Lucky turned on the pleading face and asked if we could do s’mores in her secret garden instead, and who am I say no to a face like hers?
After over-indulging on probably a few too many chocolatey, gooey marshmallow treats, Lucky is curled up on the picnic rug, passed out next to Toast Malone as he snores loudly, basking in the warmth of the gas fire.
I relax back on my elbow watching Hannah, taken aback by her beauty as she gazes up at the blanket of stars, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the fairy lights strung above.
And here, on the roof, in Lucky’s secret garden, with my baby girl safe and sound, sleeping peacefully on one side, the love of my life curled up on my other, I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever felt this whole.
I’ve never felt that completeness, like this is exactly where I’m meant to be.
And it’s a weird feeling, one I never thought I’d experience, but it’s kind of everything.
“Move in here with us,” I say, surprising myself with my words.
Hannah turns her face toward me, a small crease of confusion burrowing between her eyebrows. “Huh?”
“Move in, with me and Lucky. Live here with us.”
Her eyes flare. “Isn’t that, like… way too soon?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Probably. But I love having you here. And so does Lucky. It’s not the same when you’re not here. Feels like there’s something missing.”
Hannah considers the question a moment, her gaze flitting to where Lucky and Toast are sound asleep. “What about Toasty?”
I sniff a laugh. “Pretty sure Lucky would riot if the beast didn’t come too.”
Hannah smiles at the two of them.
“Come on, Baby Draper,” I urge, grabbing her around her waist and shifting her body in one effortless move so that she’s facing me, forced to straddle my thighs.
Holding her close, my hands rest on her hips, and I steady her with an earnest look, resting my forehead against hers.
“Please move in here with us because this place doesn’t feel right when you’re not around,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.
“Let me give Lucky the one thing she’s always wanted—a family. ”
Hannah smiles, but I don’t miss the tears that reflect the shine of fairy lights in her eyes.
“Happy tears?”
She nods. “I love you. And I love Lucky.”
“Is that a yes?” I quirk a brow, wrapping my arms tighter around her, my smug grin threatening to break free.
She nods again, and my shoulders sag with relief as I release the breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
Searching my eyes, Hannah’s smile turns sad. “I’m just sorry tonight didn’t end the way you wanted it to.”
I balk. “You kidding me, Baby Draper? I got you.” I scoff, burying my face in the crook of her neck and breathing her in. “You’re my happy ever after.”
“Sounds like some sort of romance novel,” she says on a sigh when my lips find the one spot I know makes her toes curl.
Gliding my tongue against her pulse point, I revel in the taste of her skin and the way her body shivers in response, and with a throaty chuckle, I murmur, “As long as it’s one of those filthy ones.”
THE END