Epilogue
Nick
The United Center was deafening. It was a physical assault of noise—twenty-two thousand people screaming, the bass of the goal horn vibrating in the concrete floor, the screech of steel on ice.
I stood at center ice, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, sweat dripping from my nose.
I was holding thirty-five pounds of silver over my head.
The Stanley Cup.
It was heavier than I expected. It was colder. And it was the most beautiful thing I had ever touched—second only to the woman standing by the glass.
I lowered the Cup, letting out a roar that was lost in the cacophony. I handed it to Jax—my winger, my best friend, and the man who had driven a Ford Fiesta to Queens to help me find my life. Jax took it, screaming like a banshee, and skated off to show it to the crowd.
I didn't follow the Cup. I skated to the gate.
The security guard opened it without me asking. They knew the drill.
I stepped onto the rubber mat. My skates clacked loudly as I walked toward the VIP section.
There she was.
Jess.
She was wearing a vintage Blackhawks jacket over a black dress. Her copper hair was loose, wild, catching the arena lights like fire. She was crying. Not the heartbreaking, silent tears of the airport three years ago, but happy, messy, uninhibited tears.
"You did it!" she screamed over the noise, climbing down from her seat.
"We did it," I corrected, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her over the railing.
I didn't care about the cameras. I didn't care about the sweat soaking my jersey or the blood on my chin from a high stick in the second period.
I pulled her into me, burying my face in her neck. She smelled like expensive perfume and vanilla—the scent of home.
"You're a champion, Nick," she sobbed into my shoulder. "You're the King."
"I'm just a guy with a really good defensive line," I murmured, pulling back to look at her.
I scanned her face. The freckles I had memorized. The green eyes that had haunted me for weeks when we were apart. She looked tired—she had been working non-stop on the choreography for a new Broadway show that was opening in the fall—but she was radiant.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"He's with the sitter in the family room. They wouldn't let him on the ice. Health code violations."
I laughed. "I'm the Captain. I'll buy the health department."
I looked up. In the luxury box high above the ice, I saw a familiar silhouette.
My father.
He was clapping. Politely. Stiffly. He was watching the "Vance Legacy" achieve its zenith.
Three years ago, seeing him there would have filled me with dread. It would have made me feel like I was performing for his approval.
Now? He was just a spectator. We spoke on holidays. He sent expensive, impersonal gifts. But he had no keys to my house. He had no leverage.
I looked back at Jess.
"Let's go home," I said.
"Nick, you have to do the lap. You have to do the interviews. You have to drink champagne out of the Cup."
"I can do all of that in twenty minutes," I promised. "Then... we go home."
"To the dog?"
"To the dog. And the empire."
I kissed her. It was a deep, searing kiss that was broadcast on the Jumbotron to millions of viewers.
I didn't care. Let them watch.
I was Nick Vance. I was the Conn Smythe winner. I was the Stanley Cup Champion.
But mostly, I was Jess Monroe's husband. And that was the only title that mattered.
Jess
The brownstone in Lincoln Park was quiet. It was the kind of expensive, heavy silence you pay a lot of money for in Chicago.
It was 3:00 AM.
The party at the United Center had raged until two. Then the party had moved to a club. Then the party had moved to our living room.
Finally, the last teammate had stumbled out into an Uber.
Jax had passed out in the guest room (his designated room).
Puck, our ninety-pound Golden Retriever who had zero brain cells and infinite love, was snoring loudly on the expensive Persian rug Nick pretended to care about but secretly let the dog roll on.
I walked into the kitchen. It was a mess. Pizza boxes, empty champagne bottles, a discarded tie.
Nick was leaning against the island.
He had finally taken off the suit he had changed into after the game. He was wearing grey sweatpants—low on his hips—and a white t-shirt that was tight across his chest. He was holding a glass of water, staring at the wall.
But he wasn't staring at nothing. He was staring at the framed photo we had hung there.
It was a black and white shot from our wedding day two years ago. We were on the roof of the brownstone. I was laughing, my veil blowing in the wind. Nick was looking at me with an expression of such intense, terrifying devotion that it still made my breath hitch.
"Hey," I whispered.
He turned. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but the grey irises were warm.
"Hey." He held out his arm. "Come here."
I walked to him. He pulled me between his legs, wrapping his arms around my waist. He rested his chin on top of my head.
"We need to clean this kitchen," I mumbled into his shirt.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Or we hire someone. I'm rich, remember?"
"You're retired," I teased. "Or you will be, eventually. We have to save money."
"I signed an eight-year extension last week, Jess. We can afford a maid."
He ran his hands down my back, soothing the ache in my muscles. I had been standing in heels for six hours.
"Are you happy?" he asked quietly.
I looked up at him. He needed to hear it. even after three years, the old scars sometimes itched. He needed to know the sacrifice was worth it.
"I'm beyond happy," I said. "I'm delirious. You won the Cup, Nick. You did it on your own terms. No 9-irons. No threats. Just you."
"And you," he corrected. "You fed me granola bars."
"I'm the MVP of snacks."
He smiled. He lifted me up, sitting me on the edge of the marble island. He stepped between my knees. The movement was so familiar, so ingrained in our muscle memory, that my body reacted instantly. My breath caught. My thighs relaxed.
"You're wearing white," I noted, touching his t-shirt.
"I am."
"It's dangerous."
"Why?"
"Because," I reached for the glass of red wine I had poured myself but hadn't finished. It was sitting on the counter behind me. "I'm clumsy. Remember?"
Nick’s eyes darkened. He remembered. Chapter 1. The Gala. The moment I ruined his suit and started his life.
"Do it," he dared me.
"What?"
"Spill it."
"Nick, this is a distinct t-shirt. It's cashmere blend."
"I don't care," he growled softly, leaning in until his lips brushed my ear. "Mark me, Jess. Ruin me. I want to wear your stain."
A shiver went down my spine. The kink was still there. The need for possession. The way he wanted to be owned by me just as much as he wanted to own me.
I dipped my finger into the wine glass. A single red drop.
I pressed my finger against the white fabric, right over his heart. The red stain bloomed.
Nick watched my finger. His pupils blew wide.
"Mine," I whispered.
"Yours," he rasped.
He grabbed the wine glass from the counter and moved it out of reach. Then he grabbed me.
He kissed me with a hunger that belied the years we’d been together. It wasn't the frantic desperation of our college days. It was deeper. Heavier. It was the confidence of a man who knew exactly what I liked and exactly how to dismantle me.
He pulled my dress up. I wrapped my legs around his waist.
"Bedroom," he commanded against my mouth.
"Too far," I gasped. "Here."
"On the kitchen island? With the pizza boxes?"
"Amidst the chaos," I said. "Like always."
He laughed, a low rumble in his chest, and swept the pizza boxes onto the floor with one arm.
He laid me back on the cold marble.
"You are a menace," he murmured, his hands working the zipper of my dress.
"I'm your menace."
He stripped me efficiently. He stripped himself.
When he entered me, he didn't close his eyes. He watched me. He watched the way my head fell back. He watched the flush rise on my chest.
"Look at me," he ordered. The old dominant tone, smooth as velvet.
I opened my eyes.
"Who owns you, Jessica?"
"You do," I breathed. "You own me."
"And who do I belong to?"
"Me. You're mine."
"Always."
We moved together in the quiet kitchen, the city of Chicago sleeping outside our windows. It was slow and worshipping. It was a celebration of survival. Every thrust was a reminder that we had fought the world to be here, in this kitchen, at 3:00 AM.
When the climax came, it was a warm, golden wave. I cried out his name, digging my nails into his shoulders. He followed me moments later, burying his face in my neck, groaning with a release that shook his entire body.
He collapsed on top of me, heavy and sweaty and perfect.
"I love you," he whispered into my skin. "God, I love you."
I held him tight. I listened to his heart slow down.
"Nick?"
"Hmm?"
"I have a present for you."
He lifted his head. He looked confused. "You gave me a watch this morning. A Patek Philippe. It's in the safe."
"Not that kind of present."
I reached into the pocket of the dress that was currently crumpled on the floor. I couldn't reach it.
"Hand me my dress."
He frowned, but reached down and handed me the black silk.
I dug into the pocket. I pulled out a small, white box.
I handed it to him.
Nick sat up. He looked at the box. He looked at me.
"What is this?"
"Open it."
He opened the lid.
Inside wasn't a watch. It wasn't cufflinks.
It was a tiny pair of knit booties. They were white. They looked like ice skates.
Nick stared at them.
He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
"Jess?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"I found out yesterday," I said, my heart hammering. "Before the game. I didn't want to tell you until after. I didn't want to... distract you."
He picked up one of the booties. It was so small in his large, calloused hand. The hand that had lifted the Stanley Cup an hour ago.
His hand started to shake.
"A baby?" he asked, looking at me. His eyes were wide, terrified, and filled with a dawning, blinding light.
"A baby," I nodded. "A chaos machine. A variable we can't control."
Nick swallowed hard. He looked at the bootie. He looked at my stomach.
He reached out, his hand hovering over my belly.
"Can I...?"
"There's nothing to feel yet. It's the size of a poppy seed."
He touched me anyway. His palm was warm, flat against my skin. He treated me like I was made of glass.
"I'm going to be a father," he whispered.
"You are."
"I don't know how to be a father. My reference material is... flawed."
"You won't be him," I said fiercely, covering his hand with mine. "You broke the cycle, Nick. You're the one who stayed. You're the one who fought. You're going to be the best dad in the world."
He looked at me. Tears were shimmering in his eyes. The Ice King was melting.
"I'm scared," he admitted.
"Good," I smiled. "Fear keeps you sharp. Isn't that what you say?"
He laughed. A wet, choked sound.
He pulled me up, wrapping his arms around me, burying his face in my hair. He rocked me back and forth.
"Thank you," he sobbed. "Thank you for saving me. Thank you for this."
"We're an empire," I whispered. "We're expanding."
"Two dogs," he murmured. "And a baby. And a Cup."
"It's a lot."
"It's perfect."
POV: Dual
The sun began to rise over Lake Michigan, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and triumphant gold.
In the brownstone, the lights were off.
On the rug, Puck the Golden Retriever twitched in his sleep, chasing dream rabbits.
In the kitchen, the pizza boxes were on the floor, and a wine stain was setting into a white t-shirt—a stain that would never fully wash out, a permanent reminder of the night life got messy and wonderful.
And in the bedroom, Nick and Jess lay tangled together under the heavy duvet.
Nick’s hand rested protectively on Jess’s stomach. Jess’s hand rested over his heart.
They were asleep.
They weren't dreaming of hockey games or dance recitals. They weren't dreaming of contracts or critics.
They were dreaming of the future. A future that was loud, and messy, and completely out of their control.
And for the first time in the history of the Vance legacy, the man sleeping in the bed wasn't afraid of the chaos.
He was in love with it.
It was fun, the note had said once, a lifetime ago.
But as the sun hit the window, illuminating the silver trophy sitting on the dresser and the wedding band on the woman's hand, the truth was much simpler.
It wasn't just fun.
It was everything.