Epilogue
Five Years Later
Leo
The roar of twenty thousand people is a sound you never really get used to. It hits you in the chest, a physical wall of noise that can either crush you or lift you up.
Tonight, it was lifting me.
I skated a slow lap around the ice of the Little Caesars Arena in Detroit. The Stanley Cup—thirty-five pounds of silver and history—was heavy in my hands, raised high above my head. My arms were shaking, my legs were burning, and my beard was soaked with champagne and sweat.
I looked up at the rafters. The red banners of past championships hung there. Now, mine would join them.
Vance.
The name that I had once thought was a curse. The name that I had tried to run from. Tonight, people were chanting it.
M-V-P! M-V-P!
It was surreal. Five years ago, I was a college kid sitting in a holding cell, convinced I was a monster. Today, I was the Captain of the Detroit Red Wings, a Stanley Cup Champion, and the Conn Smythe winner.
I handed the Cup to my rookie winger—a kid who reminded me a little too much of Silas—and skated toward the glass.
I wasn't looking for the cameras. I wasn't looking for the GM.
I was looking for the suite.
There, behind the glass of the luxury box, stood my world.
Maya.
She was wearing my jersey—Number 19—but unlike the one she wore at Blackwood, this one fit her perfectly. She was holding a toddler on her hip.
Liam.
My son. Four years old. He was wearing a miniature jersey and noise-canceling headphones that were slightly askew. He was banging on the glass with a plastic stick, screaming something I couldn't hear but knew was probably "GO DADA!"
And next to her, clutching Maya's leg, was a little girl with pigtails.
Sophie. Two years old. My little shadow.
I stopped at the glass. I took off my helmet.
Maya was crying. She was laughing and crying at the same time, wiping tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of my jersey. She pointed at me, then pointed at the Cup.
I pressed my gloved hand against the glass.
Liam mimicked me, slapping his tiny hand against mine on the other side.
I looked at Maya. I mouthed the words: I love you.
She mouthed back: Show-off.
I grinned.
I had done it. I had proven everyone wrong. The scouts. The Council. My own father's ghost.
I hadn't snapped. I hadn't gone feral. I had channeled the Wolf into the game, using the aggression, the speed, the power, but always—always—keeping the man in control.
And I did it because I had an anchor.
I looked at my family one last time, winked, and turned back to the celebration.
The ice was cold. The trophy was hard.
But my heart? My heart was warm, full, and completely, terrifyingly human.
Two Hours Later.
The post-game party was a blur of suits, champagne, and reporters. I did the interviews. I shook the hands. I smiled until my face hurt.
But the moment I could escape, I did.
I slipped out the back door of the VIP lounge, loosening my tie.
I found them in the family waiting room. It was chaos—wives, girlfriends, kids running everywhere.
But in the corner, it was quiet.
Maya was sitting on a sofa, reading a book to Sophie, who was fast asleep on her lap. Liam was on the floor, pushing a toy Zamboni across the carpet.
When I walked in, Liam’s head snapped up.
"DADA!"
He launched himself at me.
I caught him mid-air, swinging him up. He smelled like baby shampoo and popcorn.
"Did you see me, Dada? Did you see me hit the glass?"
"I saw you, buddy. You hit it hard. You almost broke it."
"I'm strong!" Liam roared, flexing his tiny biceps.
"You're very strong," I agreed, kissing his cheek.
I walked over to the sofa. Maya looked up. Her eyes were soft, tired, and full of so much love it knocked the wind out of me.
"Hey, Champ," she whispered.
"Hey, Maestro."
I sat down next to her, careful not to wake Sophie. I leaned over and kissed Maya.
It wasn't a quick peck. I lingered, tasting the champagne she had sipped and the vanilla that was still, after five years, my favorite scent in the world.
"You smell like a brewery," she murmured against my lips.
"I smell like victory," I corrected.
"Same thing tonight."
She reached up and touched the scar on my jaw—a new one, from a high stick in the second round. "You okay? You took some big hits."
"I'm fine," I said. "Just tired. Ready to go home."
"Home sounds good," she said. "Your mom called. She's at the house prepping for the after-after-party. She made lasagna."
"My mom made lasagna?" I groaned. "Great. Now I have to run five miles tomorrow to burn it off."
"You earned it," she smiled.
I looked at Liam, who was now trying to climb onto my shoulders. I looked at Sophie, sleeping peacefully with her thumb in her mouth. I looked at Maya.
"Yeah," I said, resting my forehead against hers. "I think I did."
Maya
Our house was outside the city, in Bloomfield Hills. It was big—too big, really—but it had the one thing Leo had insisted on: a massive, fenced-in backyard that backed up to a forest preserve.
For the pups to run, he had said when we bought it.
It was 3:00 AM by the time the last teammate left and the last bottle of wine was corked. My mother-in-law had taken the kids for a sleepover at her condo (she spoiled them rotten, probably to make up for the years she spent terrified of her own husband).
The house was quiet.
I walked into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher. It was a mundane task for the wife of a Stanley Cup champion, but it grounded me.
I heard the back door open.
Leo walked in. He had changed out of his suit into grey sweatpants and a t-shirt. He was barefoot. He was holding two mugs of tea.
"Leave it," he said, nodding at the dishes. "The housekeeper will get it."
"I like doing it," I said. "It reminds me I'm a person, not just a spectator."
He walked over and placed the mugs on the counter. He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply.
"You're never just a spectator, Maya," he rumbled, his voice vibrating against my spine. "You're the reason I can skate."
I leaned back into him, closing my eyes. "You were amazing tonight, Leo. The way you led the team... it was beautiful."
"It was stressful," he corrected. "But worth it."
He turned me around so I was facing him. He hopped me up onto the counter—a move that still, after all this time, made me feel small and cherished. He stepped between my legs.
"How's the cello?" he asked, his hands resting on my thighs.
"Good," I said. "The symphony season starts next month. I have a solo in the Tchaikovsky piece."
"I'll be there," he promised. "Front row. Glaring at anyone who coughs."
I laughed. "You always do."
"I'm your biggest fan."
He leaned in and kissed me. It started slow, lazy. But then, I felt the shift. His hands tightened on my thighs. His breath hitched.
The Wolf was awake.
"Are you tired?" he whispered against my mouth.
"No," I lied. (I was exhausted, but I wanted him more).
"Good."
He pulled my shirt over my head. I wasn't wearing a bra.
He groaned, a low, appreciative sound. "Still perfect."
"I have stretch marks, Leo," I reminded him. "From two giant shifter babies."
"Battle scars," he murmured, tracing the faint silvery lines on my stomach with his thumb. "My favorite kind."
He leaned down and kissed my stomach. Then higher. He took my breast into his mouth, teasing me with his tongue, making me gasp.
"Bedroom?" I suggested breathlessly.
"Counter," he countered. "I can't wait that long."
He stripped off his shirt. His chest was broader now, thicker with muscle. The old scar from his father was still there, but it was faded, just a white line in a map of new ones from hockey.
He pulled my pants down. He didn't bother taking them off completely.
He lifted me, positioning me.
He entered me.
It wasn't frantic. It was deep. Familiar. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly the rhythm I needed.
"Mine," he whispered, looking into my eyes. His irises flashed gold for a second—a flicker of the beast that he kept on a leash for me. "Always mine."
"Always yours," I whispered back.
We moved together in the silent kitchen, the only sounds our breathing and the hum of the refrigerator. It was intimate. It was raw. It was the language we had created five years ago in a dusty bell tower.
When the release came, it was a slow, rolling wave that left us clinging to each other, breathless and sweaty.
Leo rested his forehead against mine.
"Happy?" he asked.
"Deliriously."
"Good."
He kissed my nose. He helped me down from the counter and pulled my shirt back down.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go to bed. I have to wake up in three hours to do an interview with Sports Illustrated."
"The price of fame," I teased.
"The price of excellence," he corrected with a wink.
We walked up the stairs, hand in hand.
We checked on the empty nursery (force of habit), then went into our bedroom.
We climbed into the massive bed.
Leo pulled me into his side, his arm heavy over my waist.
"Leo?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you ever think about the cabin? That night?"
"Every day," he said. "I think about how close I came to losing this. And I thank God you were stubborn enough to chase me down."
"I wasn't chasing you," I yawned. "I was chasing the father of my child."
"Sure you were."
He kissed the top of my head.
"Sleep, Little Bit. We have a big day tomorrow."
"What's tomorrow?"
"Parade," he said. "And then... maybe we talk about baby number three?"
I swatted his chest. "Let me sleep first."
"Deal."
I closed my eyes.
I listened to his breathing. Slow. Steady.
I thought back to the girl I was at eighteen. The girl terrified of noise. The girl who thought perfection was the only way to be loved.
She wouldn't recognize this life. The chaos. The noise. The hockey games and the sticky toddler hands and the wolf in her bed.
But she would love it.
Because it wasn't perfect.
It was real.
And it was ours.