Epilogue
Three Years Later
Kai
The United Center in Chicago is louder than any place on Earth. It seats nearly twenty thousand people, and tonight, every single one of them was screaming my name.
"VOL-KOV! VOL-KOV! VOL-KOV!"
The sound vibrated through the floorboards of the bench, traveling up through my skates and settling in my bones. It was a familiar feeling now, a comforting rumble that signaled victory.
I sat on the boards, water bottle in hand, watching the final seconds tick down on the Jumbotron.
Chicago Blackhawks: 4
Boston Bruins: 1
We had done it. Again.
This was game seven of the Western Conference Finals. We were going to the Stanley Cup Final.
"Nice shift, King," my winger, a rookie named Miller (no relation to my old coach), slapped my shin pads. "That assist was filthy. How did you even see me?"
"I heard you breathing," I joked, squirting water into my mouth.
It wasn't a joke. My senses had sharpened in the last three years. I saw the ice differently. I didn't see it as a battlefield anymore. I saw it as a canvas.
I looked up at the luxury box suites. Specifically, Suite 219.
It was dark behind the glass, but I knew she was there.
She was always there.
The buzzer sounded. The horn blared. The team poured over the boards.
I was mobbed. Gloves in my face. Helmets knocking against mine. The smell of victory—sweat, champagne, and adrenaline—filled the air.
I shook hands with the Boston players. I saw Silas in the line—he was the backup goalie for the Bruins now. We hugged at center ice.
"Good game, brother," Silas grinned, punching my chest protector. "But your wife is going to be insufferable about this."
"She's already planning the parade," I laughed.
"Go get her, Cap."
I skated off the ice. I didn't stop for the media. I didn't stop for the trainers. I walked straight down the tunnel, past the locker room, and toward the family waiting area.
I was still in my gear. My skates clicked on the concrete floor.
The door to the family lounge opened.
And there she was.
Maeve Volkov.
She was wearing a vintage Blackhawks jacket—customized, obviously, with Swarovski crystals on the logo because she couldn't leave anything factory standard—and skinny jeans that hugged legs I knew better than my own playbook.
Her hair was longer now, a platinum wave that cascaded over her shoulders.
She looked expensive. She looked dangerous. She looked like mine.
"Hey, Champion," she smiled, stepping toward me.
I didn't say a word. I grabbed her waist with my bulky gloves and pulled her against my chest protector. I kissed her. Hard.
She tasted like expensive white wine and victory.
"You smell terrible," she murmured against my lips, wrinkling her nose but not pulling away.
"I smell like a bonus check," I corrected, pulling back to look at her. "Did you see the pass?"
"The backhand sauce in the second period? Yes. It was decent."
"Decent?" I raised an eyebrow. "That pass just paid for your new studio renovation."
"My studio pays for itself, thank you very much," she teased, tapping my helmet.
It was true. Maeve Sterling Designs was no longer a dream scrawled in a sketchbook. It was a brand. She had a flagship store on Michigan Avenue. Her lingerie line—Armor—was being worn by celebrities, influencers, and every wife in the NHL.
She was more famous than I was. And I loved it.
"Come on," she said, grabbing my gloved hand. "You have press. Then you have a shower. Then you have me."
"Can I skip the first two?"
"No. The media loves a redemption story. Go give them a soundbite."
She pushed me toward the locker room.
"I'll be waiting in the car," she promised. "Don't be long."
I watched her walk away. The sway of her hips. The confidence in her stride.
Three years ago, I thought I had lost everything. I thought I was dead.
I looked at the 'C' stitched onto my jersey. I looked at the wedding ring tattooed on my finger—because I couldn't wear metal on the ice.
I was the most alive man on the planet.
Maeve
Our home wasn't a penthouse. It wasn't a tower of glass and steel.
It was a converted warehouse in the West Loop.
Kai had bought it with his signing bonus. It had exposed brick walls, twenty-foot ceilings, and windows that let in so much northern light I sometimes had to wear sunglasses to make coffee.
It was messy. It was real.
There was a hockey net in the living room where Kai practiced his stickhandling while watching Netflix. There were mannequins in the corner draped in silk and lace. There was a giant, slobbering Great Dane named Boris who was currently asleep on the expensive Italian leather sofa.
I unlocked the heavy metal door and stepped inside.
"Boris! We're home!"
The dog lifted his massive head, thumped his tail once, and went back to sleep.
"Useless guard dog," Kai muttered, carrying his gear bag inside. He dropped it by the door. "Remind me why we feed him steak?"
"Because he's sensitive," I said, kicking off my heels. "And because you love him."
"I tolerate him. He sheds on my black suits."
Kai walked over to the fridge. He was wearing a suit now—a navy blue one that fit him perfectly. He pulled out a bottle of sparkling water for himself and a bottle of Pinot Grigio for me.
He poured the wine and handed it to me.
"To the Finals," he toasted, clinking his water against my glass.
"To the Finals," I agreed.
He took a sip, then set the bottle down. He leaned against the island—our island—and loosened his tie. He looked tired, but happy. The kind of happy that settles deep in your bones.
"My dad called," he said casually.
I froze, the glass halfway to my mouth. "Aleksei?"
"Yeah."
"What did he want?"
We hadn't spoken to Aleksei Volkov in three years. Not since the day Kai walked out of the penthouse in Boston. He had tried to reach out when Kai got drafted, then again when we got married, but Kai had ignored him.
"He watched the game," Kai said. "He said the pass was... adequate."
I snorted. "Adequate? High praise from the Boss."
"He wants to come to a game," Kai said quietly. "In the Finals."
I set my glass down. I walked over to him, stepping between his legs as he leaned against the counter. I put my hands on his chest.
"What did you say?"
"I said he could buy a ticket like everyone else," Kai said. "But he's not coming in the family suite. That's for family."
He looked down at me. His eyes were fierce.
"You're my family, Maeve. You. Boris. Silas. Your dad. Aleksei? He's just a guy who taught me how to skate."
I smiled, leaning up to kiss his jaw. "I'm proud of you."
"I know."
He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer.
"But enough about him," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "Let's talk about us."
"What about us?"
"We have a problem."
"Oh?"
"Yeah." He nodded toward the hallway. "You're wearing too many clothes."
I laughed. "I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt, Kai."
"Exactly. Too many."
He picked me up. Effortlessly. Just like he had in the college library. Just like he had in the dorm room.
I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively.
"Bedroom?" I asked.
"Bedroom."
He carried me down the hall.
Our bedroom was a sanctuary. Soft greys, warm woods, and a bed that was big enough for three people (which was necessary, because Boris sometimes tried to join us).
He set me down on the edge of the mattress.
He stood between my legs. He started to unbutton his shirt.
I watched him. I never got tired of watching him. The scars on his chest from hits he'd taken for me—metaphorically and literally. The tattoos on his arm that told the story of his survival. The ring on his finger that told the story of his future.
He tossed the shirt aside. Then the pants.
He stood there in his boxer briefs.
"Your turn," he said.
I stood up. I shimmied out of my jeans. I pulled my t-shirt over my head.
I was wearing a set from my new collection. Black lace. Strappy. Dangerous.
Kai’s eyes darkened. He groaned.
"You did that on purpose," he accused.
"I am my own best advertisement," I smirked.
He reached out, his large hands spanning my waist. He pulled me to him. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.
"God, you're beautiful," he whispered. "Every day. You get more beautiful."
He kissed me. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't desperate. It was deep. It was the kiss of a man who knew he wasn't going anywhere. A man who knew he had forever.
He laid me down on the bed.
He worshiped me.
He knew exactly where to touch. He knew the spot on my neck that made me shiver. He knew how to grind his hips against mine to build the friction just right.
"Say it," he commanded, hovering over me, his body slick with sweat.
"Say what?" I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Who do you belong to?"
It was our game. A callback to the nights when we had to hide. When belonging to each other was an act of rebellion.
"I belong to the King," I whispered.
"And who does the King belong to?"
"He belongs to me."
He thrust into me. Deep. Claiming.
We moved together in the rhythm of a thousand nights. It was perfect. It was home.
When we finished, collapsing against each other in a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing, Kai didn't pull away. He stayed there, holding me, his face buried in my neck.
"Maeve?" he whispered after a while.
"Mmm?"
"I have another secret."
I opened my eyes. "Another one? Kai, if you bought another car..."
"No car."
He shifted, reaching into the nightstand drawer. He pulled out a small velvet box.
My heart skipped a beat. "Kai, we're already married."
"I know," he smiled. "Open it."
I opened the box.
Inside wasn't a ring.
It was a key.
An old, iron key.
I looked at him, confused. "What is this?"
"I bought it," he said. "Last week."
"Bought what?"
"The cabin," he said softly. "Not a rental. A real one. In Wisconsin. On a lake. It has a fireplace. It has big windows. It has no cell service."
Tears pricked my eyes.
"The dream," I whispered.
"The reality," he corrected. "It's ours. For the summers. For when I retire. For... whenever."
I threw my arms around his neck, kissing him all over his face. "I love you. I love you so much."
"I know," he laughed, hugging me back. "But there's one more thing."
"What?"
He pulled back. He looked nervous. Kai Volkov never looked nervous.
"The cabin," he said, tracing patterns on my arm. "It has three bedrooms."
"Okay? Guest room. Studio."
"Yeah," he nodded. "Or... a nursery."
I went still.
I looked at him. His grey eyes were vulnerable. Hopeful.
"A nursery?" I repeated.
"I know we said we'd wait," he said quickly. "I know your career is exploding. And I'm traveling. But... seeing Silas with his kid last week? And thinking about the cabin? I just thought... maybe."
He looked down at my hand, playing with my fingers.
"I want to be a dad, Maeve. A good one. Not like mine. I want to be the dad who buys the paints. The dad who builds the fire."
My heart felt like it was going to burst.
I reached out and cupped his face.
"Kai," I said.
"Yeah?"
I took his hand. I moved it down. I pressed his palm against my lower stomach.
"You might want to start building that fire sooner than you think," I whispered.
Kai froze. His hand went rigid against my skin.
He looked at my stomach. Then at my face.
"Maeve?" his voice cracked. "Are you...?"
I nodded, tears spilling over. "I found out this morning. Before the game. I was going to tell you at dinner, but..."
"Oh my god."
He sat up. He looked at me like I was a miracle. Like I was the Stanley Cup and the sunrise and the entire universe wrapped in one.
"A baby?" he choked out.
"A baby."
He let out a shout of pure joy. He grabbed me, pulling me into his lap, burying his face in my stomach. He kissed my skin. He murmured things in Russian that sounded like prayers.
"A baby," he repeated, looking up at me, his eyes shining. "We're going to have a baby."
"We are."
"I'm going to teach him to skate," he promised. "Or her. I'm going to teach her to paint. I'm going to teach them everything."
"You'll be the best dad in the world," I said.
He kissed me again. Softly. Tenderly.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for saving me. Thank you for this life."
"We built it together," I said.
He lay back down, pulling me with him. He kept his hand on my stomach, protective and possessive.
We lay there in the quiet of our home, in the city we had chosen, dreaming of the cabin in the woods.
I thought about the girl who spilled wine on a bed because she was lonely. I thought about the boy who sat in a frozen cabin because he was unloved.
They were gone.
In their place were a King and a Queen, ruling a kingdom built not on ice, but on fire.
"Kai?" I whispered as sleep began to pull at us.
"Yeah, Princess?"
"I love you."
"I know," he said, his voice heavy with contentment. "I love you too."
He kissed my temple.
"Lights out," he said.
And as the city of Chicago glittered outside our window, we fell asleep, safe in the knowledge that no matter how cold the winter got, we would never be cold again.