Epilogue
Max
Five Years Later
My legs burned. My lungs ached. We had been playing for four hours.
The Chicago Blackhawks won the faceoff. Their star center deked past our defenseman. He had a lane.
The crowd gasped—a collective intake of breath that sucked the air out of the building.
He wound up for a slap shot.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate. I just moved.
I pushed off the post, sliding across the crease in a desperate butterfly.
The puck left his stick. A black blur moving at 105 miles per hour.
It was headed for the top corner. The impossible shot.
I threw my glove up. Not to catch it, but to find it.
Thwack.
The puck hit the leather. The impact jarred my shoulder, sending a shockwave down my arm.
I closed the glove.
I held it up.
The whistle blew.
For a second, silence.
Then, the referee pointed to the faceoff dot. No goal.
But wait.
Our winger, a kid named Tremblay, had picked up the rebound on the ensuing scramble. He was gone. A breakaway the other way.
I watched from my knees.
Tremblay deked. He shot.
The red light went on.
The horn blasted.
The roar was physical. It shook the ice beneath my pads.
We had won.
The Stanley Cup.
My teammates were sprinting toward me. Helmets flew. Gloves rained down like confetti.
I stood up. I ripped off my mask. I let out a scream that tore my throat raw.
Then, I looked up.
Not at the scoreboard. Not at the rafters.
I looked at the private suite, three levels up, right behind the net.
She was there.
Imogen.
She was wearing my jersey—the authentic one, stitched with VANE—tucked into a pair of leather pants that looked suspiciously like the ones she wore the night we won the college championship. She was jumping up and down, holding a glass of champagne, screaming my name.
Next to her, Dean Sterling—now retired and oddly mellow—was high-fiving Jinx, who had flown in for the game.
I pointed at her. I tapped my chest, right over my heart.
She blew me a kiss.
The Conn Smythe Trophy presentation (MVP of the playoffs) was a blur. The Commissioner handed me the Stanley Cup. It weighed 35 pounds. It felt like a feather.
I skated a lap. I kissed the silver. I held it up for the city of Montreal.
But the real victory wasn't the cup.
It was what happened in the locker room an hour later.
The media was gone. The champagne had been sprayed (Dom Pérignon, not the cheap stuff anymore). The boys were smoking cigars.
The security guard opened the door.
"Family only, Cap."
Imogen walked in.
She picked her way through the puddles of champagne in her Louboutin boots. She looked out of place in the sweat-soaked room, a diamond in a coal mine.
She walked straight to me. I was sitting in my stall, still in my gear, exhausted and reeking of victory.
"You did it," she whispered, stopping between my knees.
"We did it," I corrected, pulling her down for a kiss.
She tasted of expensive champagne and peppermint. I tasted of Gatorade and cigars.
"You realize," she murmured against my lips, "that now you have to retire. You can't top this."
"I'm twenty-seven," I grinned. "I have a few years left. Besides, we need the money for the renovation."
"The renovation is done, Max," she laughed. "I finished the nursery last week."
I froze.
The locker room noise faded away.
"The nursery?" I asked, my voice dropping.
She smiled. It was a secret, knowing smile. She took my hand—the one with the Cup ring tan line—and placed it on her stomach.
Under the jersey, her stomach was flat. But her hand over mine was warm and certain.
"We're going to need another bedroom," she whispered. "And maybe a mini-stick."
I stared at her.
The Cup was sitting right next to me. The pinnacle of my career. The thing I had bled for since I was four years old.
It meant absolutely nothing compared to what she just said.
"Are you serious?" I choked out.
"Dead serious," she nodded. "I'm six weeks along. I was going to tell you after the game, win or lose. But... winning seems like better timing."
I buried my face in her stomach, right there in the locker room, and I cried.
Not the silent, stoic tears of the Warden. Happy, messy, loud tears.
"Hey!" Miller yelled from across the room. "Vane's crying! Softie!"
I stood up. I picked Imogen up in my arms, spinning her around.
"I'm going to be a dad!" I roared.
The locker room erupted again. This time, the cheers were for something much bigger than hockey.
Imogen
Our house was exactly what I had drawn in that sketchbook five years ago.
It sat on a hill outside Montreal, overlooking the city lights. It was modern—glass, steel, and concrete—but it was warm. We had filled it with oversized velvet sofas, Persian rugs, and art.
My art.
The "Anatomy of Restraint" series hung in the hallway. A new series, "The Architecture of Chaos," hung in the living room. It featured charcoal sketches of hockey skates, baby shoes, and coffee cups.
It was 2:00 AM.
The house was quiet. The Stanley Cup party had moved to a club downtown, but Max and I had slipped away early. "Captain's privilege," he had said.
We were in the kitchen.
Max was making carbonara.
He was still wearing his suit pants, but his dress shirt was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal the geometric tattoos on his forearm. He moved around the kitchen with that effortless grace that still made my breath hitch.
I sat on the counter—my spot—watching him.
"You know," I said, swirling a glass of sparkling water (no wine for me). "My dad actually hugged Jinx tonight. It was disturbing. I think the apocalypse is nigh."
"He likes Jinx," Max said, cracking an egg with one hand. "Jinx laughs at his jokes. It’s a low bar."
"True."
Max turned off the burner. He plated the pasta. He walked over to me, setting the bowl down next to my hip.
He stepped between my legs.
"Happy?" he asked, resting his hands on my thighs.
"Deliriously," I said. "You won the Cup. We're having a baby. And you made pasta. It’s the trifecta."
"The baby," he murmured, his eyes dropping to my stomach. "I still can't believe it."
"Believe it," I said. "I've already started designing the crib. It's going to be structural. Very Bauhaus."
"As long as it's safe," he said, the protective edge creeping into his voice. "I'm going to bubble wrap the whole house."
"No bubble wrap," I chided. "We agreed. Controlled chaos."
He looked up at me. His slate eyes were soft, molten silver in the dim light.
"I love you," he said.
It wasn't a casual 'I love you.' It was the kind of 'I love you' that had weight. Gravity.
"I love you too," I whispered.
He leaned in and kissed me.
It started slow. A celebration of the day. A tasting.
But then, he groaned, a low rumble in his chest, and pulled me closer. His hands slid up my thighs, under the silk of my robe.
"Bedroom?" I asked breathlessly.
"No," he growled, lifting me up. "I can't wait that long. Couch."
He carried me to the living room. The fire was dying in the fireplace, casting a soft orange glow.
He laid me down on the velvet sofa. He knelt between my legs.
"You're sure?" he asked, his hand hovering over my stomach. "Is it... safe?"
"Max," I laughed softly. "I'm pregnant, not broken. The doctor said it's fine. In fact... I think the hormones are making me a little crazy."
"Crazy how?" he smirked, unbuckling his belt.
"Crazy for you," I said. "I want you. Now."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He shed his pants. He settled over me, his weight familiar and comforting.
When he entered me, it wasn't frantic. It was deep. It was knowing.
We knew each other’s bodies perfectly now. I knew exactly how to arch my back to make him gasp. He knew exactly where to touch me to make me unravel.
He moved slowly, watching my face.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, stroking hair back from my forehead. "You glow."
"Sweat," I corrected, closing my eyes as he hit a deep spot.
"Glow," he insisted.
We made love in the firelight, surrounded by the silence of our home. It was a reaffirmation. A reminder that underneath the trophies and the contracts and the baby news, we were still just Max and Imogen. The boy who collected rocks and the girl who drew hands.
When we finished, we lay tangled together on the sofa, too lazy to move to the bedroom.
Max pulled the throw blanket over us. He rested his head on my chest, listening to my heart.
"What are you thinking?" I asked, running my fingers through his hair.
"I'm thinking about the storage unit," he said quietly.
"The one in Grafton?"
"Yeah. I drove by it last summer. It's a coffee shop now."
"That's nice."
"I'm thinking about how terrified I was that day," he said. "I thought if I let you see the mess, you'd run. I thought I was unlovable."
"You were wrong," I said.
"I was," he agreed. He kissed the skin over my heart. "Thank you for not running."
"I couldn't run," I said. "You had my keys."
He chuckled. "I love you, Imogen Vane."
"I love you, Max Vane."
We drifted into a comfortable silence.
"Hey," he said after a few minutes.
"Yeah?"
"If it's a boy... maybe we name him Leo?"
I laughed. "Absolutely not. My brother’s ego is big enough. If we name the kid Leo, he'll be unbearable."
"Fair point," Max conceded. "What about... Carter?"
"Jinx?" I raised an eyebrow. "You want to name our child after the man who wore the goal net as a hat?"
"He's loyal," Max defended.
"We'll discuss it," I said, yawning. "But I'm leaning toward something artistic. Maybe... Charcoal?"
"We are not naming our kid Charcoal."
"Slate?"
"Better."
I closed my eyes, smiling.
Outside, the snow started to fall, covering the city in a fresh, white blanket. Inside, it was warm.
The Warden had his wall. But it wasn't made of rocks anymore. It was made of us.
And for the first time in his life, he didn't have to hold it up alone.