Epilogue
Kesha
December
The mainland ice arena smelled like frozen rubber, stale popcorn, and the faint, lingering ghost of someone’s overly enthusiastic cologne.
I hunched forward on the bleachers, my fingerless gloves gripping the metal railing so hard my knuckles ached.
The cold didn’t bother me—I’d spent enough winters on frozen ponds in Massachusetts that it all came back, even after years in Texas—but the tension in my shoulders was a different story.
Jay’s team, the Eastshore Ice Sharks, was down by one with two minutes left in the third period, and I was this close to screaming myself hoarse.
“Come on, ref!” I bellowed as a questionable offside call went against us. “That was clean! You’re blind or on the take!”
Beside me, Korrad chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest where my shoulder pressed against his arm.
He didn’t even flinch at the cold—just sat there in his ridiculous Christmas moose T-shirt—the moose was wearing a Santa hat and holding a candy cane, so Jay called it the Christmoose—his big hand swallowing mine.
His fingers were warm despite the rink’s chill, his thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles like he was trying to soothe me.
It wasn’t working.
“Mom,” Milo groaned from my other side, his breath fogging up his glasses. “You’re so embarrassing.”
I didn’t take my eyes off the ice. “Honey, if you’re going to be embarrassed by enthusiasm, you’re in the wrong family.”
Korrad’s chuckle turned into a full-on laugh. “She’s got you there, buddy.”
Milo huffed, pulling his beanie lower over his ears. He was bundled up like a marshmallow—thick coat, scarf, gloves, the works—because unlike his father, he was a Southern boy born and bred and did get cold.
And unlike me, he didn’t give a single damn about hockey. He’d only agreed to come because I’d guilted him with the whole “Jay came to your performance” argument, and now he was making me pay for it by sighing dramatically every time I yelled.
Not that it had been a performance, not really. “It was just a gig, Mom,” he’d corrected me yet again when I’d brought it up earlier. But semantics.
I’d never forget that night, though.
Two weekends ago, Korrad and Milo had played together at the community mic night at The Salty Squid, Eastshore’s favorite dive bar.
The crowd had been packed, the air thick with the scent of fried food and beer, and the way Milo had sat behind that drum kit—shoulders back, sticks gripped just right, his entire body listening—had made my chest ache with pride.
Korrad had played guitar, his voice rough and warm as he sang some old orcish folk song I didn’t know, but the way Milo had locked into the rhythm, the way his eyes had glowed when his father nodded at him in approval…
I’d cried, okay?
I mean, I did it subtly, I like to think, because of the whole embarrassing-my-kid thing. But still, I’d clutched Joss’s hand and cried happily to see how proud my baby was to get that nod from his father.
And Jay, bless him, had been so bored he’d nearly face-planted into his plate of nachos. But when Milo had finished their last song, Jay had clapped louder than anyone, whistling through his fingers like a proper hooligan.
Now, watching Jay on the ice, I couldn’t help but draw the parallel. The way he skated—fast, aggressive, his stick handling like an extension of his body—was the same kind of rightness I’d seen in Milo behind the drums. Different talents, same fire.
“He’s got the puck!” I shrieked as Jay broke away from the defense, his skates digging into the ice. “Go, go, go—!”
A defenseman from the other team—some kid almost as big as an orc—lined Jay up for a hit. I sucked in a breath, my nails biting into Korrad’s hand, but Jay saw it coming at the last second. He twisted, took the check on his shoulder, and still managed to fire off a shot.
The puck pinged off the post.
The crowd groaned. I groaned. Korrad’s grip on my hand tightened.
“Damn,” he muttered. “That was a hell of a shot.”
Last summer, after Jay’s stitches had come out, we’d focused on shooting instead of skating.
I mean, the doctor had cleared him for skating—rollerblades or ice—as long as he was helmeted, but I didn’t want to risk any brain jostling.
So we spent a month just practicing shooting on the net, and he has undeniably improved.
Jay’s line changed, and the new center won the faceoff clean. The puck squirted back to the defense, and I leaned forward, my pulse kicking up as the play developed. “Watch the winger—Watch the winger—!”
The opposing team’s left wing cut hard toward the net, and our goalie—poor kid looked like he’d just hit puberty and was still figuring out his limbs—went down into the butterfly. The shot came fast, a slapshot from the blue line, and—
Whack.
The goalie’s glove flashed out. The puck froze midair for a heartbeat, then dropped into his mitt like it was magnetized.
The crowd erupted. I screamed so loud my throat burned.
“YES!” I jumped up, nearly knocking over the poor woman beside me in my excitement. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Korrad was laughing, pulling me back down before I could start a full-on conga line in the stands. “You’re gonna give the poor kid a complex with how hard you’re riding him.”
“I’m supporting him!” I protested. “There’s a difference!”
“Uh-huh.” Korrad’s eyes were crinkled with amusement. “And what’s the difference, exactly?”
I opened my mouth to retort, then paused. “One involves more screaming.”
Milo burst out laughing, and even Korrad cracked up, his deep chuckle vibrating through me where our arms pressed together. Gods, I loved this male. Loved the way his joy was so big, so unapologetic.
Loved the way he let me be exactly as extra as I wanted to be, without ever making me feel like I was too much.
The game resumed, and I forced myself to focus.
Jay’s line was back on the ice, and this time, when he got the puck, he didn’t hesitate.
He drove straight for the net, his skates carving sharp turns, his stick handling as if he was born with it in his hands.
The defenseman tried to line him up again, but Jay saw it coming.
At the last second, he dropped his shoulder, took the hit—and still managed to slip the puck between the goalie’s pads.
The red light flashed. The horn blared.
I lost my mind.
“YYYYEEEESSSSS!” I was on my feet again, my voice raw, my hands clutching the railing like it was the only thing keeping me from levitating. “THAT’S MY BOY! THAT’S MY BABY!”
Korrad was right there with me, his free hand slamming against the bleacher in approval. “Atta boy, Jay!”
Milo, meanwhile, had his hands clamped over his ears. “I’m pretending I don’t know you.”
Too excited to be subtle, I pointed at him and said loudly to the bleachers, “Milo Briley! Everyone, his name is Milo Briley, and he’s Jay’s brother!”
“Oh my god, Mom,” he groaned, sinking lower in his seat…but his lips twitched.
I was too busy laughing and celebrating Jay’s goal.
The game ended in a tie—close enough to a win that we were going to celebrate—and by the time we made it down to the glass to wait for Jay, my face hurt from smiling so hard.
Jay skated over, his hair damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed. He grinned up at us, his tusks glinting. “Did you see that last goal?”
“Did I see that last goal? Uh, excuse me? I screamed that last goal,” I corrected.
Korrad was taking Jay’s bag and nodded seriously. “The whole rink heard her scream that goal. Your brother is mortified.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re the best.”
“I really am.” Grinning, I slung my arm around Milo’s shoulders.
Korrad ruffled his hair. “Good game, kid. That hit you took in the second—” He winced.
Jay groaned. “Dad. Don’t baby me in front of everyone.”
“What?” Korrad spread his hands. “I’m just saying, orcs have hard heads. It’s a fact.”
The guy next to us—a dad from the other team, judging by his jersey—snorted. “No kidding. My kid tried to check yours in the first. Nearly broke his stick.”
Jay grinned. “Yeah, well. He should’ve aimed lower.”
I swatted his arm. “Don’t encourage violence.”
“It’s hockey, Mom.”
Korrad burst out laughing, and even Milo cracked a smile.
We herded Jay toward the locker rooms to grab his stuff, and I couldn’t stop stealing glances at Korrad. He was still chuckling, his eyes crinkled, his hand warm in mine.
Six months of this.
Six months of him. Of us.
Of waking up in his arms, of his stupid jokes over breakfast, of the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Six months of not having to keep score.
Because I had stopped. Somewhere between the lighthouse and the hospital and the way he’d held me that night in the hotel, something had shifted.
That horrible debt from Northstar was now officially paid off—turned out that with two incomes chipping away at it, it went faster—and we’d celebrated with a fancy dinner and a very fancy dessert back at home.
A weight had lifted.
Now, when I looked at Korrad, I didn’t see what I owed him.
I saw what we had built together.
Jay emerged from the locker room, his bag slung over one shoulder, his hair still damp. He had a bruise blooming on his cheekbone from that last hit, but he was grinning like it was Christmas morning.
Which, actually, was less than a week away.
The rink was decked out for the holidays—garlands draped over the railing, a massive tree in the lobby twinkling with ornaments the kids made, and the scent of cinnamon in the air.
I couldn’t smell it without teasing Korrad, who always wrinkled his nose.
Milo had been talking nonstop about the Eastshore Elementary holiday concert for weeks, and now that it was finally here, he was practically vibrating.
“You ready for tomorrow?” I asked him as we piled into Korrad’s truck, the heat blasting against the cold.
Milo nodded so hard his beanie nearly fell off. “Ms. Miles said I can play the snare drum for ‘Jingle Bells.’ And next year, in Upper School, I get to be in the band for the concert!”