Epilogue 1
EPILOGUE 1
Unfortunately, I’m not lounging on a beach somewhere under the sun with a frilly, fruity drink in my hand. Instead, I’m in a chilly hockey arena as the Knights take to the ice during the Stanley Cup Final. They barely made it, shaving into the Conference Final by a single point. But that’s hockey for you, the advantages are slim. I can’t claim to fully understand the game, but it’s grown on me.
So have the other players and their wives and girlfriends. In fact, the Nebraska Knights are one big happy family and I’m glad to call Cobbiton home again. Thankfully, I live across town from my mother and sister.
After my sister’s episode at our wedding, I haven’t so much as gotten an apology. I considered sending her an olive oil cake—like an olive branch for peace, only tastier. It’s a new product at the Busy Bee Bakery. I’ve partnered with them since getting the Knights special events contract.
Yep, Margo A Go-Go now plans special affairs for the team. It wasn’t a case of nepotism either. Cara is Coach Badaszek’s assistant and solicited applications for a special events planner. I applied and got the job based on my presentation and not because I’m married to the goalie.
Speaking of, back to the game. Juniper sits beside me and we both jump to our feet as the center for the Cascades makes his way toward the defensive zone. Everyone starts chanting, “Drop the Hammer.”
Even though I can’t see Beau’s face beneath his helmet (thank goodness for the protective gear), his posture coils as if he’s daring McMillan to take the shot.
“Close the gap,” Juniper yells as if Beau can hear her.
The Cascades’ center passes the puck to one of the wingers and he takes the shot. Thanks to my fabulously talented husband with lightning-fast reflexes, it’s an empty-netter.
“Did you see that?” Juniper asks.
“No, I’d fallen asleep,” I joke.
The arena is lit with electric energy. The MC Hammer song comes on and the crowd goes wild, cheering for Beau.
We’re only one period in and I’m sweating under my jersey. I officially own two. One is branded Knights merch with Beau’s last name and team number on the back. The second one says Mrs. Hammer on the back with the number two. Thankfully, no one else on the team has that number this season. The next one I plan to have specially made will be smaller. My sister was right. I do want a family. Hopefully, there will also be a fourth, fifth, and sixth jersey—a whole team of Hammers. Wink, wink.
During the second period, the Cascades press hard, keeping our defense running. The forwards are kind of falling apart, seemingly making desperate moves rather than assisting each other. Then there’s the goalie who pace-skates in front of the net because half the game is being played at the other end of the ice.
I’ll admit, I only get excited (and nervous) when Beau’s skills are being utilized in the game. But then the play abruptly stops.
Juniper gripes. “Did you see that? Bogus offside call.”
Ted and someone from the other team are thrown in the penalty box.
“Then why is the Cascades’ guy in the box?”
“Because he high sticked Ted.”
“Going to be real. I don’t quite get it.”
Nostrils flared, Juniper says, “They better win.”
“What about the Kings?”
Her gaze travels to the bench where a few other Knights players wait to get tagged in. “Allegiances can change.”
“Does Juniper have a hockey crush?”
Before she can answer, it’s game on. In the next fifteen minutes, everyone on the Knights except Beau visits the sin bin, which Juniper tells me is a sin because they’re not being any rougher than the opposing team.
By the third period, the game is tied three to three which is intense even though this is my first Stanley.
No sooner does the puck drop, than three guys are in a fight. Thankfully, gloves don’t come off. I’m about to ask Juniper to explain why, when Micah breaks out with the puck, driving toward the Cascades’ defensive zone. Pierre appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and the pass is made.
But before he can slap it into the net, the Cascades’ enforcer body slams Pierre into the boards. Everyone but Cara gasps. Her gaze is fixed on her husband as if confident he’ll get back to his feet. Sure enough, he does and the French Canadian is swinging. Not his stick. That’s on the ground. His gloves too. He’s pummeling the goon.
Seconds later, the ice is a cluster of refs in black and white stripes, our guys in red and silver, and the Cascades light blue jerseys. It’s a blur of fists flying and shouting.
From the corner of my eye, two guys remain uninvolved in the battle royale on center ice. But then they square up. Gloves come off. Helmets are tossed to the ground. Beau and the Cascades’ goalie go at it, spinning in their skates as they grip each other’s arms and throw punches.
“Please don’t get a black eye,” I whisper.
“I’m sure he’s had worse,” Juniper says.
“Please don’t lose a tooth.”
“He still has his teeth?” she asks.
“What sport did I marry into?” I fret.
I hold my breath as blood splatters onto the ice, but the refs manage to break it up. My husband skates back to his post, gathering his gear, and seems relatively unscathed. The Cascades’ goalie is rather scathed and leaves the ice.
“Why did the goalie go at Beau? He was just minding his own business. I saw number thirty throw the first punch.”
Harlow rolls her eyes. “He was taunting Beau by singing a 5PRNZS song.”
“The only way the Cascades are going to win this game is if they score on him. That’s not going to happen,” Whit adds.
“I’d like to think that too, but how do you know?” I want even a morsel of their confidence, especially when they don’t flinch at the fighting parts.
Meg, who’s been married to a player the longest, wears a sly grin. “If Beau drops the mitts, it’s game over for the other team. He gets into this zone with focus and determination so great, it’s like he puts up an iron force field around him and no puck or player will pass it. Just watch.”
“Hayden has told me the same thing. Says it’s a sight to behold. You married a star,” Delaney says.
Turns out, they’re right, but I don’t breathe until the buzzer sounds, indicating the Knights win by a slim five-four score. Everything they said is true and I shout it from the rooftops, er, from behind the glass. When the Knights do their victory lap, the strangest thing happens.
“It looks like—” Cara says.
“No way,” Harlow adds.
Lips parted as if witnessing a small miracle, Whit nods her head. “It’s a first, but not his first time winning the Stanley Final.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Delaney says.
But I have. Beau smiles. It’s teeny tiny, itty bitty. But there all the same, and I’ve been lucky enough to see it before our wedding day, on our wedding day, and many times since.
When I meet my husband outside the locker room, clobbering him with a full-body koala bear hug, I get the smile again, then I kiss his face to smithereens.
He has to go to the post-game press conference and then there’s a celebration dinner, er, midnight snack, which is how I branded the event in case they won. Cara somehow knew or was betting on it.
But first, the cameras and microphones swarm the guys.
When a reporter asks Beau what he’s doing now that he’s won, he says, “Going on a honeymoon with Honey Butter.”