Epilogue
Zoey
Three Months Later
“YES! YES! DO IT AGAIN!”
“I can’t do it again, Morgs, it’s a replay!”
“I DON’T CARE! REWIND IT!”
I lean against the doorframe, grocery bags dangling from my hands as I watch my daughter scream at the television, pointing at the screen like she's directing air traffic.
Colt and Morgan are both slouched on the sofa…
or they were, a second ago. Now they’re jumping up and down, screaming and carrying on while the coffee table is littered with the remains of their 'dinner': two empty boxes of chicken tenders from The Leopard Lounge and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn sitting beside two glasses of chocolate milk.
On the flat screen, the Snow Leopards are playing Seattle.
Or, more accurately, Colt Lane is playing Seattle.
The replay shows him flying down the ice, a blur of purple and gold, his skates cutting through the defensive line like they’re all standing still. The puck is a dark smudge against the white ice, glued to his stick as he feints left, then spins right.
Morgan is still dancing as the replay shows, in detailed slow-motion, the exact moment Seattle's goalie drops too early, and Colt slides the puck into the top right corner of the net.
The Den on the TV erupts, but I think Morgan and Colt are erupting even louder.
“THAT’S MY BUDDY!” Morgan shrieks, launching herself off the couch and tackling Colt around the waist.
He catches her with an “oof,” laughing, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Wait, wait! This is the bit where I do the celebration you requested!"
Morgan stares gleefully at the screen as Colt finds a camera, look it dead in the eye before dropping his stick and starts to do—
"THE ROBOT! ARGH!" Morgan squeals and claps her hands in delight. "I can't believe you actually did it."
He winks at her and smiles. "I told you, when Colt Lane says he'll do something, he'll damn well do it, kiddo."
I smile, because ain't that the truth.
"Time for ice cream!" Morgan giggles.
“We had ice cream last night, you goof,” he says, spinning her in a circle until she squeals. “We already celebrated my goal. Remember?”
“We need to celebrate again!” Morgan declares, her feet dangling. “That’s the rule!”
“Is that the rule?” Colt asks, looking over her head at me, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Absolutely,” I say, setting the bags on the kitchen island. “Section four, subsection B of the Morrison-Lane household code. All game-winning goals require double celebration.”
“See?” Morgan wiggles until he sets her down. “Mom agrees.”
She immediately drops into a crouch in front of him, holding out a fist. Colt mirrors her, their matching expressions suddenly serious.
“On three,” Morgan says.
“On three,” Colt agrees.
They count together, synchronizing the shake of their fists like a paper, scissors, rock battle. “One… two… THREE!”
But what follows is not a fist bump or a paper, scissors, rock battle. It’s a full-blown secret handshake that somehow now involves two fist bumps, a finger snap, a shoulder shimmy, a high-five, and finally, a dramatic finish where they both pretend to throw confetti into the air.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s perfect.
"Oh my God," I laugh. "That handshake is getting out of control."
I watch them, my heart doing that soft, aching squeeze it does whenever I see them together. It's only been three months since Colt terminated his lease, packed two suitcases of clothes and moved into the apartment above Butter Batch.
Three months since I told Big Mike and his investors that yes, I’d take the franchise deal, but headquarters stays in Chilmore.
But in those three months since, my life has finally stopped being a series of tasks to survive and started being… this.
Colt is back on the ice full-time. The concussion is a memory, the bruise long faded. He plays like he was never gone, maybe better, because there’s a new lightness to him.
A joy that wasn’t there before.
That lightness isn’t just from being back on the ice, though. It’s from the choice he made. The one he called his parents about the night he turned down New York.
They’d argued, of course.
His mom had cried about ‘legacy’ and ‘missed opportunities.’ But Colt held his ground. He told them, for the first time in his life, that his happiness wasn’t negotiable.
And when the silence on the other end of the line finally broke, his dad had simply said, “Well. If that’s what you want, son.” It wasn’t a parade, but it was a start.
Now, three months later, they text him after every game. Just a simple ‘Great goal’ , but it’s more than he ever got before.
Even when he’s on the road, he doesn’t disappear. My phone buzzes constantly, with pictures of his hotel room, or a video of Samuel trying to order room service in French and failing spectacularly.
Last week he sent a selfie of him and Gabe on the team plane, with Gabe scowling while Colt holds up two fingers behind his head.
He calls every night. Without fail. First to talk to Morgan, to ask about her day, her math test, whether she’s practicing her card tricks.
Then, after she’s in bed, he calls me. His voice is a low, intimate rumble through the phone, telling me about the game, the city, how much he misses my bed.
Sometimes, he convinces Big Mike to let Morgan come along on a trip.
She’s been to Boston and Vancouver now, sitting in the family box with the other players’ families, wearing her tiny Snow Leopards jersey with BUDDY on the back.
She comes home buzzing with stories and a backpack full of mini shampoos from the hotel.
I go sometimes, too. But mostly… I stay here.
I don’t mind the quiet. Because when Colt’s away, I get my Tuesday nights with Debbie at Shear Trouble. We drink the secret champagne, and she updates me on every piece of town gossip.
“Okay, chaos crew,” I say, pulling milk and eggs from the grocery bags. “It’s a school night. Morgs, bedtime.”
“But Mom—” Morgan whines, still buzzing from the handshake.
“No buts. You have that field trip tomorrow, remember? To the wildlife sanctuary. You need your brain to be awake for the otters.”
Morgan groans, but she’s already skipping toward me, her socks sliding on the hardwood. She wraps her arms around my waist, burying her face in my sweater. “Did you get more of the rainbow sprinkles?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re the best.” She tilts her head up, her hazel eyes always shining. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you more, baby.”
She detaches herself, then skips over to Colt, who’s now slouched back on the sofa, one arm draped along the back. He looks completely at home here, and we wouldn't have it any other way.
Morgan leans down and kisses his cheek with a loud smack. “Love you, Buddy. Good game.”
He taps her nose. “Love you too, Morgs. Now go dream about otter babies.”
“I will!”
She disappears down the hallway toward her room. A moment later, we hear her door click shut, then the faint sound of her sleepytime playlist starting up. It was Colt's idea, a soothing playlist she sleeps to every night, and you know what?
We've had our bed to ourselves every night since.
No sneaking around on our tiptoes, no hushed voices, and best of all, no quiet sex.
Silence settles over the living room, and Colt’s gaze finds mine across the room. “Hey, you.”
“Hey,” I say, smiling. “Nice goal.”
The game still flashes on the TV, casting blue light across the room. I settle onto the couch beside Colt, his body warm where our legs touch. On screen, Silas York skates a ruthless defensive line.
“He looks different,” I murmur, leaning into Colt’s shoulder. “Agitated.”
"Yeah, he was off last night." Colt’s hand finds my thigh. “His ex-girlfriend said she was gonna show up, though. Not sure if she did.”
“Judging by the way he’s checking everything that moves into the boards? Wouldn’t surprise me.” I tilt my face toward his, catching the clean scent of his cologne. “Should we be worried?”
Colt’s mouth brushes my ear. “Only if she brings popcorn.”
I sink deeper into the cushion beside him, tucking my legs under me. Our knees brush and his other arm is still along the back of the sofa, and his fingers drift down to play with the ends of my hair.
“Long day?” he asks.
“Mmmm… It was… productive,” I correct. “Met with the branding team from the investor group again.”
"Wait." Colt's hand stills on my thigh. "That creep from the graphic design team didn't ask you out again today, did he?"
I blink innocently, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "What? Oh. Derek? Yeah, he... mentioned coffee."
Colt's voice goes flat, and I can practically see his eyes glowing like a wolf. "How exactly does one mention coffee?"
"You know." I wave my hand vaguely, enjoying the way his eyes narrow. "Casually. In conversation. Like, 'Hey Zoey, you're looking beautiful today. We should grab coffee sometime.' Very normal. Very professional."
Colt’s eyes narrow. “And what did you say?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
He goes still, gaze locked on me. I keep my expression perfectly innocent for two heartbeats before my mouth twitches and gives me away.
"Stop messing with me like that!"
He moves fast, hands gripping my hips, hauling me into his lap until I'm straddling him. His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing as he growls, “Do I need to remind you who you belong to?”
“Yes. Please.”
I'm laughing, breathless, already arching into him as heat floods through my core. My thighs clench around his hips, and I grind down deliberately.
"But maybe first, I…" He slaps my ass. "Oh! I have something to show you first."
He growls again, and the friction of his hips lifting sends sparks shooting straight to my clit, making me gasp against his mouth.
His hands tighten on my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh.
"You buy more lingerie again?" His voice drops, rough and hungry. "I'm still getting over the leather outfit you wore on Sunday."
His fingers flex against my ass, and I feel the thick ridge of him pressing up between my thighs.