Epilogue #2
“Beau! Quit making out with the Tiny Terror and come tell me I’m starting.” Cole’s voice, all swagger and zero patience, barrels through the haze.
“I fucking hate when he calls me that,” she murmurs, still close enough for me to feel her smile ghost against my mouth. “Guess that’s your cue.”
“You’re not starting,” I shout as Alise pulls back just enough to breathe, her lips flushed and her eyes bright with mischief. “And even if you were, I wouldn’t tell you in front of your fragile ego.”
Cole flips me off with the hand not currently testing his shoulder. Good, he’s looser now; that’s one less thing to worry about.
“Go,” Alise says, smoothing my quarter-zip like I’m the one going to battle. “Make them look good.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I steal one more quick kiss to carry me through the game, then fall into step beside Cooper. Cole slides in on my other side, spinning his stick like he’s about to audition for a circus instead of stepping into the Stanley Cup Final.
“You know,” Cooper says, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry past us, “I think we’re going to do this.”
“We are,” I say, like it’s already carved in stone.
Not a hope, just a fact. Maybe that’s why manifesting works so well for people. You say it enough, and it stops being a wish, turning into a place you can stand.
“Look at you, getting all philosophical,” Cole says, smirking as he bumps my shoulder. “Trying to sound wise now that you’re old?”
“That’s right. I am older,” I correct, giving him a look. “Respect your elders.”
“Respect is earned,” Cole fires back, grinning, the spark in his eyes daring me to argue. It’s the same spark he’s had since we were kids, the one that says he’ll always push me just to see if I’ll push back.
Cooper doesn’t miss a beat. There’s a smirk tugging at his mouth he doesn’t bother to hide, and for a second, it softens the edge of his voice. “Which you still haven’t managed with either of us. Some things never change.”
“It’s still two against one, huh? Ganging up on the middle kid,” I add, shaking my head.
“You aren’t the middle—I am.” Cole scoffs. “You’re just the grumpy one who can’t handle being out-charmed.”
“Out-charmed? I taught you half your moves.” I snort.
“And I improved them,” he shoots back.
“Debatable,” Cooper cuts in, his voice already edging into coach mode. But the almost-smile in his eyes says the same thing the banter always has—it’s our version of I love you. “Now, quit bickering before I bench both of you—yes, even you, Beau.”
I tilt my head toward him. “You’re lucky Kyle’s not here to back me up.”
“He’s too busy pretending he doesn’t care who drafts him.”
“He’d better care. Either way, Kyle’s coming home,” I say automatically, as the sticks start their pre-game staccato against the walls. “Or there will be hell to pay.”
Cooper almost smiles. “You sound like Momma.”
“Someone’s gotta keep you two in line,” I shoot back. “It’s a full-time job.”
“Guess that makes you the team mom.” Cole’s grin widens. “Should we have gotten you a bedazzled clipboard?”
“Careful,” I warn him, “or I’ll make you haul the Cup by yourself.”
“Sounds like we’re winning, then,” he says, winking. “I’ll need the workout to balance all the champagne.”
Their laughter echoes, but beneath it is something heavier, threaded through every jab and tease.
We all know this is the last ride, the final game, and the jokes are our way of holding it at arm’s length for one more minute.
Even the banter feels inevitable, like it’s been leading us here all along.
The tunnel narrows around us, and the noise changes, less the diffuse roar of the locker room and more a pressing thunder rolling closer with every step. It’s like the air knows what’s about to happen. Just like that, the joking dies.
Cooper’s face shifts, a calm, lethal focus taking over.
Cole’s grin slides off, replaced by something sharper.
My pulse evens out, everything inside me clicking into the clean, familiar rhythm of game time.
Cooper doesn’t do speeches; he just stops and looks at each player one by one.
They lean toward him as if they could pull courage straight out of his stare.
“Trust your read,” he says, and that’s all we need.
We step forward together, moving in sync for the first time in years, like muscle memory from years of racing each other to the car after practice. We’ve been at odds, we’ve been on opposite sides, but right now, we’re on the same team in every sense that matters.
“You gonna cry if we win?” Cole nudges me one last time.
“You gonna cry if you don’t get the first lap?”
“Guess we’ll find out.” His grin comes back, just a flash.
Then the roar of the crowd hits so loud it’s not just sound anymore; it’s something alive under my skin. The ice stretches out ahead of us, every single thing we’ve ever chased wrapped into one sheet of white.
I take my place behind the bench with Langley.
I’m not on the ice anymore, but old goalie habits die hard.
My superstitions have shifted—no crease scrapes or pad taps—but the urge is still there.
I check the lineup board twice. Re-tie a shoelace that doesn’t need it.
Tap the same spot on the glass I’ve touched every game since January.
Maybe it’s irrational, but I’m not giving the universe a single crack to slip through tonight.
Before I lock in fully, I glance into the stands. Alise is there, on her feet, hands cupped around her mouth. I can’t hear her words, but I don’t need to because they hit me in the chest all the same. I give her a small salute, and she smiles back a grin that could knock me over if I let it.
It feels inevitable, seeing her there. Like all the roads we took—every fight, break, and fragile moment—were always bending toward this. Toward her waiting for me in the crowd, and me knowing without a doubt that I belong exactly here.Then I turn to the ice. Game time.
The game is a knife fight from puck drop, fast and mean. Langley’s locked in, glove flashing as he snatches pucks out of the air like it’s nothing. They strike halfway through the first, but our top line answers before the horn.
The second is all punishment—blocked shots, brutal penalty kills, and Cole burying the go-ahead goal to put us ahead.
The third is survival. Every shift is a battle. Bodies crash against the glass, pucks ricochet through the slot, and every blocked shot leaves a mark we’ll feel tomorrow. They tie it late, and the crowd groans like one body punched in the gut.
We call a timeout. Cooper’s voice remains steady, cutting through the noise, repeating the same words from before the game: Trust your read.
Cole wins the faceoff, cuts through a wall of bodies, and rips it.
The puck dings off the post, kisses the inside, and drops over the line.
We hold until the final horn blares. The sound that follows is pure chaos, and the ice is swallowed by noise.
Helmets fly, gloves hit the sheet, and suddenly everyone’s in a pile, shouting, laughing, and half-crying.
Cooper’s the first to crush Cole in a hug, both of them yelling something I can’t hear over the fans.
I shove my way in, arms around them both, and for a second, it’s just us in the middle of the storm, grinning like idiots because we did it.
We take the victory lap slowly, soaking it in.
Fans press against the glass, pounding out a rhythm that feels like it’s in my bones.
Cooper hoists the trophy first, face split in a smile I haven’t seen in years.
Cole gets it next, lifting it high over his head, spinning so the cameras catch every angle.
When it lands in my hands, it’s heavier than I remember, but it’s a weight I’d carry forever.
I lift it, heart thudding, the roar wrapping around me like a second skin.
And out there, past the boards, Alise is on her feet, smiling through tears.
Our eyes lock, the chaos fading just enough for me to see the pride, love, and the I told you so I’m sure is coming any minute.
I tip the cup toward her, just for a beat, a silent promise she’s the reason I can hold it at all.
Six months ago, I wasn’t sure if my heart could hold this weight. Now, after meds I once hated and nights where fear pressed harder than any forward on the ice, I’m still here. Not perfect or cured, but steady enough to stand in this moment with her in my line of sight.
Her smile deepens, one hand pressed to her heart, and then the noise swallows us again.
Back in the tunnel, the energy’s still electric. Cole is hollering about his goal, voice edged with glee; Cooper’s needling him about finally doing something useful.
“I can take that if you’re having trouble holding it, old man.” Cole bumps my shoulder.
“You couldn’t carry my water bottle.”
Cooper shakes his head, grinning. “God, you two are exhausting.”
“Part of our charm,” Cole says without missing a beat.
“Part of my headache,” Cooper mutters, but he’s still smiling as we push through the tunnel.
By the time we hit the locker room, it’s all champagne spray and victory shouts. I set the cup on the table, and the guys take turns with it, phones out, arms around each other like nobody ever wants to let go.
Alise slips in at the edge of the room, scanning the chaos until her eyes find mine. The noise dims, not completely gone, just muffled. She crosses to me, slow but steady, like she’s moving through a current, and I meet her halfway.
“You were incredible,” she says, voice low enough for just us.
“Didn’t even play,” I remind her, but my hand’s already finding her waist.
“You showed up,” she says, simple and sure. “For them and for me, like always.”
I lean in, smirking. “Guess that means you owe me.”
“Owe you what?” Her brows lift, but there’s heat in her eyes.
“That preview you promised me earlier.”
Truth is, I’ve been carrying those words in my head since warmups, replaying them like my private highlight reel. Every glance, every almost-touch, every ounce of wanting her packed tight inside me like a live wire. I’ve waited three full periods, and now, with the cup won, it all breaks loose.
I catch her face in my hands like I’ve been drowning for years and she’s my first breath.
My mouth finds hers, hot and hungry, and I swallow her gasp, deepening the kiss until the world tilts.
One arm winds around her waist, hauling her body closer to me.
She tastes like champagne and victory, her fingers sliding into my hair, tugging until a low sound rumbles from my chest.
But it’s not enough. I angle her head and kiss her deeper, losing myself in the heat and the slide of her mouth. Her body presses to mine, and the whole damn night—the fear, the fight, the win—boils down to this. To her. To us.
“Hey!” Cole’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and smug. “Quit sucking face with our sister and come celebrate!”
We break only because we have to, breaths ragged, her smile brushing mine like a secret.
“Go,” she says softly, eyes still locked on mine. “They’re waiting for you.”
I shake my head, brushing my thumb along her jaw, needing her to hear it. “I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. Not if I get to walk through it with you.”
Her breath catches, eyes glimmering, and for a heartbeat, the chaos of the locker room fades like someone hit mute on the world. She leans into my touch, her whisper meant only for me. “Then we’ll walk through it together. Always.”
The promise roots deep in my chest, steadier than any victory horn or thunder of the crowd.
She nudges me toward the mob, and I go, grinning like a fool. Cooper’s there, with his arm slung over Cole’s shoulders, both of them soaked in champagne and sweat. We meet in the middle, our arms locking tight. Three Hendrix brothers, steady enough to hold up the whole damn world.
We lift the Cup together. One perfect night.
One impossible win. For a heartbeat, the three of us are kids again, arms locked like nothing in the world could break us.
It is wild, unpolished, and ours. The kind of rough-edged affection only brothers know how to give.
Beneath the champagne and the thunder of the crown, I feel it plain as day: love sharpened into jabs, loyalty hidden in rivalry.
And across the chaos, she’s still there, smiling like she always knew this is where we’d end up. Not because fate demanded it, but because we fought our way here, choosing each other over and over, even in the darkest nights.
Everything I’ve ever wanted isn’t in my hands.
It’s standing across the room, smiling back at me.
Thank you for reading Lighting the Lamp from Myself! I hope you loved Alise and Beau’s story. If you did, or even if your didn’t, I would be so grateful if you could please leave a review.