Epilogue
Beau
Four Months Later
The locker room hums with energy under harsh fluorescents and smells like fresh ice shaved thin as paper, spearmint gum, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel.
Somebody’s blasting a hype playlist that keeps jumping from hard rock to old-school pop because no one understands genre discipline, and also because it works.
Half the guys are drumming on their thighs; the other half are pretending they don’t care while their knees bounce in time anyway.
I’ve got my tablet open and a Sharpie behind my ear like a cliché, which is fine because clichés stick around for a reason.
“Eyes up,” I growl, angling the tablet so Langley can see the tight clip I’ve looped three times already.
“They’re dragging a guy through the slot late.
Don’t over-rotate. Own your posts, then shuffle. Don’t slide. Make them beat your feet.”
Langley—my once-backup-turned-starter and my favorite proof that patience isn’t the same thing as waiting—leans in to squint. He chews his mouth guard like a man negotiating with fate and wins on charm.
“He’s hanging on the goalie’s right,” he says, tapping the screen with a carefully wrapped knuckle. “So watch the weak-side bump?”
“Exactly.” I freeze a frame and circle a stick blade with my thumb. “And remember, their PP2 likes to disguise the seam by taking the high wrister. You’re not giving it to them. You’re swallowing it, spitting it back out only if you can steer it to where their tallest guy isn’t, which is—”
“The far hash,” he finishes, eyes cutting to mine, steady. “Got it.”
Crosby elbows him lightly. “Translation: be huge, be perfect, time-travel when necessary.”
“Correct. Also, save all the pucks.” I flip the Sharpie off my ear, let it spin once over my knuckles, and catch it.
Langley knocks his fist against mine. “Thanks, Coach.”
There’s a burr of feeling under my ribs at that.
Langley used to follow my skates like a shadow; now I follow his calm.
I lock my tablet and slide it into the beat-up leather folio Alise found for me at a thrift store.
It smells faintly of cedar and old paper, a lot like my life now.
Instead of sweat and rubber, it’s more like wood, ink, and something that lasts.
Across the room, Cole is rolling his shoulder like he’s trying to persuade it into cooperating.
The wrap under his pads peeks a thin line of white just at the edge of his jersey.
He wasn’t supposed to come back this season, but with Mercer gone and me forced to take an early retirement, he said he was ready to lace up his skates again.
Durable and just as stubborn as an old rope, my brother.
“Good?” I mouth, and he flashes the cocky half smile that says Of course, which translates in brother to It hurts like hell, but I’m not giving you that satisfaction.
Cole does a quick stick flip, catching it behind his back because he can’t not show off even when his rotator cuff would prefer a nap and some ice.
“Hey.” Sammy, Cole’s personal shadow and cheerleader, slides up to him. “Can you tape my knob like yours?”
“Kid, my knob’s got more miles on it than your entire dating history.” Cole grins, plucking the stick out of Sammy’s hands and starts wrapping it with practiced, smug precision.
There’s a rhythm to this room I missed when I was on the wrong side of the glass.
Even now, on the right side, but dressed in joggers and a quarter-zip instead of pads and a chest protector, I feel it deep in my bones.
Maybe that’s what broke me the most when the diagnosis came.
The drumbeat stopped, and all I could hear was my own ragged and untrustworthy breathing.
Now it’s steadier. Six months on meds I once resented, early nights instead of bar crawls, and learning that living isn’t about pretending I’m unbreakable.
My heart’s not perfect—never will be—but it beats clean enough that the doctors nod and tell me I’m holding my ground.
Prognosis? Manageable, with the right care.
Outlook? Good, so long as I keep choosing steady over reckless.
“You gotta get that look off your face.” Cooper’s voice skims in from my left.
He’s shed the suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The man was born to be a head coach, and it’s a little rude how well he’s slid into it. Six months and he has the whole bench beating to his metronome, and the league hates him for it.
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to throw yourself in front of a slapshot with nothing but your ribs,” Cooper deadpans. “You’re a coach now, remember? We throw clipboards, not bodies.”
“Clipboards break easier than ribs, but point taken.”
His eyes flick toward the whiteboard, then back to me. “You think we’re ready?”
“You’re asking me?” I glance at the fresh scrawl with simple directives and bold arrows that could cut glass.
“I ask the guy who sees everything.”
“Tighten the F3. They’re sneaking behind him in transition, and it’s gonna burn us if we don’t clamp down. And Cole’s gonna want an early heavy shift to prove something. Don’t give it to him. Make him stew.”
“You gonna fight me if I ignore that?” Cooper snorts, shaking his head.
“Yup.”
The corner of his mouth twitches as he claps my shoulder and turns to the room. “Two minutes!”
The room pitches to a higher frequency as trainers whip around with last-second water bottles. Someone thumps the radio, and the playlist hiccups, landing on a beat that feels like thunder crawling up your spine. Then I hear a quick and familiar knock on the door.
Alise slips through the cluster of equipment managers and bench staff wearing her usual game day uniform of one of my green Timberwolves oversized sweatshirts and black leggings, a lanyard badge, and a smile that undoes the knots I didn’t know I’d tied today.
I swear the decibels drop in a ten-foot radius when she’s near, and not because she’s quiet.
She’s riotously not quiet, but whenever she’s near, it’s like time bends and noise turns to background texture; there’s just us.
“You lost?” I ask because we’ve been playing that game since Bower found her in the tunnel all those weeks ago, daring to wear my brother’s jersey.
“Extremely. I was looking for the world’s grumpiest coach with the softest heart.”
“You should check Colorado’s bench,” I say, but my mouth gives me away by twitching. “What’s up?”
She steps closer, gaze flitting to my tablet, to the Sharpie, then to the stripe of sweat darkening my collar. “I have something for you.”
“If it’s a pregame pep talk—”
“It’s better.” She rises on her toes and hooks a finger in my collar, tugging me down like a secret. “It’s a bribe.”
“For?”
“For winning,” she says, the word a warm brush along my mouth. “Payment to be discussed later, but I promise it includes kisses.”
“We have HR, you know.”
“Do they… disallow celebratory make-out sessions with your partner?”
“Pretty sure they encourage them,” I say, and her laugh slides through my bones.
She kisses the corner of my mouth quickly, hidden by a spare equipment rack. It’s barely there, just a brush of her lips against mine. Except there’s nothing innocent about the way her thumb lingers along my jaw, tracing stubble like she’s testing grit.
“Alise!” Ramona sings from outside the doorway. “Do not steal my future husband’s staff, please! I need them to win me jewelry.”
“I’m returning him better.” Alise grins against my lips.
“You better.” Ramona pops her head in, slips a garter into Cooper’s pocket with regal menace, and vanishes again.
Their wedding is in a month, but you’d never know it from the way she storms in like she already owns his last name.
Ramona has been juggling dress fittings, vendor calls, and the team’s playoff run like she’s running both an event and a dynasty.
Alise is right there with her, darting between fittings and florist meetings, making sure every detail is perfect.
If she’s exhausted, she hides it well, though I’ve caught her more than once kicking off her Jordans the second she thinks no one’s looking.
“What the—” A bewildered look crosses Cooper’s face as he pats the pocket.
“Don’t ask,” I tell him.
“Wasn’t going to,” he says, before turning toward the rest of the room. “Helmets on.”
He looks like a conductor at the head of an orchestra, where the instruments can break each other’s faces. The room surges toward the tunnel, and sticks bang the doorframe as everyone heads toward the ice.
“Hey.” Alise curls her fingers into my quarter-zip, halting my movements before the current takes me. “You okay?”
She was there the night my body betrayed me and every day since. She’s felt the tremors and the quiet days when the couch becomes an island that feels like a trap. She isn’t asking me about the game or my nerves; Alise is checking in on me like she has since we were kids.
“I’m good, happy, even,” I say, letting the words feel true in my mouth. “Didn’t think I’d get to be here like this with you.”
“You earned this,” she says, her eyes a little watery. “Not just this job. You earned the right to stand in this moment. You fought for it. Now, go remind them why you were the best I’ve ever watched.”
“Best you’ve ever watched?” I ask, eyebrows up.
“In goal,” she says, prim as anything, but there’s a flicker in her smile that says she’s thinking about other arenas entirely. “We can debate the other categories later.”
“Later’s a long time to wait…. Care to give me a preview?” I lean into her a fraction, turning the surrounding noise into an audience for a show that’s only for two.
Her eyes darken as she grabs my shirt and pulls me down, her lips crashing into mine.
The kiss steals my breath and hands me back every reason I’ve fought to be here.
My hand slides to the small of her back, anchoring her to me, and everything else fades away until there’s only her and the way she presses closer to me, daring me to stop.