Epilogue
Liam
The lights of the NHL Awards Gala were blinding.
They flashed in a rhythmic, strobe-like assault, bouncing off the diamonds on Sofia’s neck and the polished surface of the trophy I was currently holding.
The Vezina Trophy.
Best Goaltender in the National Hockey League.
Four years ago, I was sitting in a garage in Vermont, eating cold lasagna out of Tupperware, wondering if I would ever be able to afford a knee brace without insurance. I was a kid with a bad reputation, a worse bank account, and a broken leg.
Tonight, I was wearing a bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo (navy, obviously), standing on a stage in Las Vegas, accepting an award that put my name next to legends.
I gripped the podium. My hands, scarred and battered from a season of stopping 100-mile-per-hour slap shots, looked rough against the sleek metal.
I looked out at the audience. It was a sea of black ties and designer gowns. The best players in the world were sitting there.
But I only saw one person.
Sofia was sitting at Table 1, right in the center.
She was wearing a dress that looked like liquid silver—a nod to the night we met at the Founder’s Gala, but this one was her own design. Vanner-Thorne. The label was currently the hottest thing in athletic-luxury fashion.
She was looking at me with that fierce, unwavering pride that had pulled me out of the dark so many times. Her chin was up. Her eyes were shining. She wasn't the Heiress anymore. She wasn't the Manager.
She was my wife.
I leaned into the microphone. The room went silent.
"They tell you that goaltending is a solitary position," I said, my voice echoing through the hall. "They call us 'The Wall.' They say we stand alone."
I paused, catching Sofia’s eye. She smiled, a small, secret curve of her lips that was just for me.
"But that's a lie," I continued. "I don't stand alone. I never have. Four years ago, I thought my career was over. I thought I was nothing more than a bad knee and a sad story. But someone bet on me. Someone looked at the wreckage and saw a foundation."
I lifted the trophy slightly.
"This weighs thirty pounds. But the woman sitting at Table 1 carried me when I couldn't walk. She managed my life when I couldn't pay my bills. She loved me when I had nothing to offer but a beat-up truck and a lot of baggage."
I saw tears glinting in her eyes. I saw her hand go to her neck, touching the simple silver chain she wore every day, even with the couture gown.
"This trophy has my name on it," I said. "But it belongs to Sofia Vanner. Because without her, I’m just a guy in a garage. With her? I’m the luckiest man on earth."
The applause was deafening. A standing ovation.
I walked off the stage, bypassing the press line. I handed the trophy to a handler. I didn't care about the hardware.
I walked straight to her.
She stood up.
"You showboat," she whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.
"I learned from the best," I grinned.
I pulled her into my arms right there in the middle of the ballroom. I kissed her. It wasn't a polite, red-carpet peck. It was deep. It was claiming. It was a reminder to every multimillionaire in the room that while they might have trophies, I had the prize.
"Let's get out of here," I murmured against her lips. "I hate this tux."
"You look hot in the tux," she argued.
"I'd look better out of it."
She shivered. "Okay. Let's go home."
Sofia
Home was a brownstone in Lincoln Park, Chicago.
It was exactly as we had planned it during those whispered conversations in the hospital cot. High ceilings. Big windows. A kitchen with a massive island (where we drank very expensive coffee every morning).
And, of course, the color palette. Navy and Cream.
We walked through the front door, leaving the humid Chicago summer night behind.
The greeting committee was waiting.
Puck, our three-year-old Golden Retriever, came bounding down the hallway, his tail wagging so hard his entire body shook. He had a stuffed hockey puck in his mouth.
"Hey, buddy," Liam cooed, instantly dropping to his knees. The tuxedo pants strained against his thighs—a sight I would never tire of—as he ruffled the dog's ears. "Did you miss us? Did the dog walker give you treats?"
Puck dropped the toy and licked Liam’s face.
I watched them. The two loves of my life.
Liam Vanner—NHL All-Star, Vezina winner, multimillionaire—rolling around on the rug with a dog.
It was a long way from the snowy ditch in Vermont.
"He missed you," I said, kicking off my heels. My feet ached, a familiar phantom pain from years of stilettos, but tonight it was a good ache. "He knows you brought home hardware."
Liam stood up, loosening his tie. He looked at me. The playfulness vanished, replaced by that intense, slate-gray stare that still made my breath hitch.
"I brought home everything I need," he said.
He walked over to me. He placed his hands on my waist, his thumbs rubbing circles against the silk of my dress.
"You were amazing tonight," he said softly. "You looked... regal."
"I try," I smiled, reaching up to undo his bow tie. "It's good for the brand."
"Screw the brand," he growled.
He kissed me.
It started slow. A savoring. A reacquaintance after the public performance of the evening. But it shifted quickly. The adrenaline of the night—the award, the speech, the crowd—transmuted into desire.
He spun me around and walked me backward until I hit the wall of the foyer.
"Liam," I gasped. "The dress. Be careful."
"I'm always careful with you," he murmured, his hands finding the zipper at the back.
He lowered the zipper slowly. The cool air hit my skin. The dress pooled at my feet like a puddle of mercury.
I stepped out of it, wearing only my lace panties.
He groaned. "Jesus, Sofia."
He stripped off his jacket. His shirt followed, buttons flying. He was bigger now than he was in college. The NHL training regimen had added ten pounds of muscle to his frame. His chest was broad, the scars faded but still there, a map of his history.
And the tattoo. The mountains.
I traced the ink on his arm.
"Take me upstairs," I whispered.
"No," he said, hooking his arm under my knees and lifting me up. "Too far."
He carried me to the living room, to the oversized velvet sofa (Navy, naturally). He laid me down.
He hovered over me, bracing his weight on his arms.
"You own me," he said, looking down at me. "You know that, right? Every save. Every win. It's all you."
"I know," I said. "I own the asset."
He smirked. "Brat."
"Your brat."
"My wife."
He kissed me again, his hand sliding down my stomach. His touch was familiar now. He knew every inch of me. He knew where I was ticklish, he knew how I liked to be touched, he knew exactly how much pressure to apply to make me fall apart.
"Good girl," he whispered against my ear.
The words still worked. Four years later, and that praise still sent a jolt of heat straight to my core.
"Please," I begged. "Liam."
He didn't make me wait. He settled between my legs, protecting his knees (old habits die hard), and entered me.
It was a slow, deep slide. A homecoming.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
We moved together in the quiet of our house. The only sounds were our breathing, the rustle of fabric, and the occasional thump of Puck's tail against the floor as he slept nearby.
This wasn't the frantic, desperate sex of our college days, where we were trying to outrun a scandal. This was established love. It was confident. It was thorough.
He took his time. He worshiped my body with his hands and his mouth. He made me feel cherished.
When the release came, it was a slow, rolling wave that left me shaking in his arms. He followed me moments later, burying his face in my neck, groaning my name.
We lay there for a long time, tangled together on the sofa, the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains.
"I love you," he whispered into the silence.
"I love you too," I said. "More than the G-Wagon."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against my chest. "High praise."
He shifted, pulling the throw blanket over us.
"I have to tell you something," I said.
The tone of my voice must have changed, because he went still. He lifted his head, propping himself up on one elbow to look at me.
"What is it?" he asked. The protective edge was back. "Is it your dad? Did Marcus call?"
"No," I said. "Marcus sent a fruit basket for your win. It was weirdly nice. It's not him."
"Then what?" he asked. "Business trouble?"
"No," I said. "The business is great. We're launching the toddler line next month."
"Okay..." he looked confused.
I took a deep breath. I reached out and took his hand—his massive, goalie hand—and placed it on my stomach.
His hand covered my entire abdomen.
He frowned. He looked at his hand. Then he looked at my face.
"Sofia?" he whispered.
"We might need to expedite the toddler line," I said softly.
He froze. His eyes went wide. His pupils dilated.
"Are you..." his voice cracked. "Are we...?"
"Nine weeks," I nodded. tears pricked my eyes. "I found out the morning before we flew to Vegas."
He stared at me. He looked terrified. He looked amazed.
"A baby?" he breathed.
"A baby," I confirmed. "A little Vanner."
He sat up completely, pulling me with him. He looked at my stomach like it was the Holy Grail.
"You're pregnant," he said, testing the word.
"Yes."
"I'm going to be a dad."
"Yes."
"I'm going to be... like him?" The fear flickered in his eyes. The shadow of his father.
I grabbed his face.
"No," I said fiercely. "You are not him. Remember? You are the man who stayed. You are the man who fought. You are the man who plays with a rose on his mask."
I kissed his nose.
"You are going to be the best dad in the world, Liam. Because you know exactly what it feels like to be let down, and you will never, ever let this kid feel that."
He let out a shaky breath. He leaned his forehead against mine.
"I'll protect you," he swore. "Both of you. I'll be the Wall."
"I know," I said.
He moved his head down. He kissed my stomach. A soft, reverent press of his lips against my skin.
"Hey, bug," he whispered to the tiny life inside me. "It's your dad. I promise... I promise I'll catch you."
I watched him, my heart overflowing.
The broke mechanic. The heiress. The scandal. The distance.
We had survived the ice. We had survived the fire.
And now, we were building something that would last forever.
Seven Months Later
The nursery was Navy and Cream. Obviously.
I sat in the rocking chair, holding a bundle wrapped in a soft, cashmere blanket.
James Marcus Vanner.
He was tiny. He had Liam’s dark hair and, terrifyingly, my chin.
The door opened softly.
Liam walked in. He was wearing his practice gear—sweatpants and a hoodie. He looked tired. The season was a grind.
But when he saw us, the exhaustion melted away.
He walked over and knelt beside the chair.
"Hey," he whispered. "Is he sleeping?"
"Finally," I whispered back. "He has your lungs."
Liam grinned. He reached out a finger. James’s tiny hand curled around it instinctively.
"Strong grip," Liam noted. "Goalie?"
"Defenseman," I corrected. "I don't want the stress."
Liam laughed softly. He kissed my cheek.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Tired," I admitted. "But good."
"I got you something," he said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box.
"Liam, no more jewelry," I scolded gently. "You already bought me the 'Push Present' necklace."
"It's not jewelry," he said.
He opened the box.
Inside was a key.
A car key.
I frowned. "You bought me a car?"
"Not just a car," he said. "I found it. In a salvage yard in Jersey. It took me six months to restore it. Tony helped me ship the parts."
He pressed the key into my hand. It was an old key. Heavy.
"Look out the window," he said.
I stood up, careful not to wake James, and walked to the window. I looked down at the street.
Parked in front of the brownstone, gleaming under the streetlights, was a Mercedes G-Wagon.
Matte black. Vintage.
But it wasn't just any G-Wagon.
It was my G-Wagon. The one I had crashed into the snowbank five years ago. The one that started it all.
He had found the chassis. He had rebuilt it. Piece by piece. Bolt by bolt.
"It's safe now," he said, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. "I reinforced the frame. Better tires. Better suspension. And I put a car seat in the back."
I stared at the truck. The symbol of my carelessness, transformed by his hands into a symbol of his love.
"You rebuilt it," I whispered, tears streaming down my face.
"I like fixing broken things," he murmured into my ear. "Remember?"
"I remember," I sobbed quietly.
He turned me around. He wiped my tears with his thumbs.
"We're not broken anymore, Sofia," he said. "We're restored."
He kissed me. Deep and slow and full of promise.
James stirred in my arms, letting out a small sigh.
We looked down at our son. Then at each other.
Outside, the Chicago snow began to fall, dusting the black hood of the truck in white.
It was a blizzard. Just like the night we met.
But this time, nobody was stuck. Nobody was alone.
We were safe. We were warm.
And we were just getting started.