Epilogue
Five Years Later
Elijah
The Auditorium Theatre in Chicago is a cathedral of gold leaf, velvet, and history. It smells of old perfume, floor wax, and the hushed anticipation of four thousand people holding their breath.
Five years ago, I wouldn't have known a plié from a puck. I thought ballet was just pretty girls in tutus moving to slow music. I didn't understand the violence of it. I didn't understand the sheer, unadulterated strength it took to defy gravity while bleeding inside a satin shoe.
Now, I knew.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the velvet railing. My hand—my right hand, the one that used to throb with every heartbeat—was steady. I wore a platinum wedding band on my left hand. I wore a bespoke tuxedo that fit perfectly, though I had loosened the tie hours ago.
On stage, the lights dimmed to a single, ethereal blue spotlight.
And there she was.
Angela.
She entered from the wings, not walking, but floating. She was dancing the title role in Giselle—the role she had dreamed of since she was a little girl doing homework at a kitchen table covered in stolen cash.
She looked... transcendent.
Her costume was a wisp of blue tulle that caught the light like smoke. Her hair was pinned back, exposing the elegant, vulnerable line of her neck. But it was her face that captivated me. She wasn't acting. She was the ghost. She was heartbreak and forgiveness personified.
The orchestra swelled. Angela rose onto pointe, extending her leg in a slow, impossibly high arabesque. She held it. One second. Two. Three.
The audience gasped.
I didn't gasp. I smiled.
I knew how much that moment cost. I knew about the ice baths at 2:00 AM.
I knew about the physical therapy appointments she scheduled around my road trips.
I knew about the nights she cried because she thought she wasn't good enough, and I had to hold her until she fell asleep, whispering that she was the greatest thing I had ever seen.
She began to spin. A blur of blue and speed.
I watched her, and I felt that familiar, heavy ache in my chest. It wasn't pain anymore. It was gratitude. It was the terrifying realization that everything I had—the three Stanley Cups, the MVP trophies, the fortune, the peace—meant absolutely nothing without the woman spinning on that stage.
She finished the variation, sinking to the floor in a pool of light, her chest heaving, her arms reaching out toward the darkness.
The curtain fell.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then, the theater exploded.
People didn't just clap; they roared. They stood up. They threw flowers. Brava! Brava!
I stood up. I clapped until my palms stung.
She came out for her bow. She looked small against the vast curtain, clutching a bouquet of red roses that I had sent backstage earlier. She scanned the darkness of the house. She couldn't see me—the lights were too bright in her eyes—but she looked toward Box 1 anyway.
She raised the flowers slightly. A signal.
I see you.
I tapped my chest, right over my heart.
I’m here.
The "Iceman" was a legend on the ice, a cold-blooded assassin who dismantled defenses. But here, in the dark of the theater, watching my wife conquer her world, I was just a man who had gotten incredibly, impossibly lucky.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Jax: Dude. She crushed it. Chloe is crying. I think she ruined her mascara. Are we still on for drinks at your place?
I typed back with one hand.
Me: Not tonight. Take Chloe to dinner. Put it on my card. Tonight is private.
I put the phone away.
Tonight wasn't for the team. It wasn't for the press. It wasn't for the friends who had become our family.
Tonight was for Phase Three.
Angela
The dressing room smelled of hairspray, sweat, and dozens of floral arrangements.
I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection. The stage makeup was heavy—thick eyeliner, false lashes, pale foundation—but beneath it, I could see the flush of adrenaline.
I had done it.
I had danced Giselle at the Joffrey. I had stood center stage and felt the love of four thousand people washing over me.
But there was only one person I wanted to see.
The door opened.
I didn't turn around. I watched in the mirror as he walked in.
Elijah Vance filled the room. Even after five years, his size still caught me off guard sometimes. He was broad, solid, a wall of muscle in a tuxedo. He closed the door and locked it—a habit from our early days that still sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine.
He didn't say a word. He walked up behind me. He placed his large hands on my bare shoulders. His thumbs rubbed circles into the tense muscles of my neck.
"You were perfect," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the chair.
"I wobbled on the attitude turn," I critiqued, leaning my head back against his stomach.
"You didn't wobble. You breathed. It made it real."
He bent down and kissed my forehead, then my temple, then the spot just below my ear.
"Start taking this off," he ordered gently. "I want to take you home."
"You’re bossy," I smiled, reaching for the pins in my hair.
"I’m eager. There’s a difference."
He helped me. He was always helping me. He pulled the pins from my hair with surprising dexterity for a man whose hands were battered by hockey sticks. He unzipped the back of my costume. He handed me the makeup wipes.
I scrubbed my face clean. I changed into the simple black slip dress I had worn to the theater. I put on my street shoes—comfortable sneakers, because my feet were screaming.
"Ready?" he asked, offering me his arm.
"Ready."
We walked out the back stage door. There were a few fans waiting for autographs—both for me and for him. We signed playbills and jerseys. We smiled for selfies.
"Mr. Vance!" a teenager shouted. "Are the Blackhawks going to repeat this year?"
"That’s the plan," Elijah said, flashing his media smile. "But right now, I’m just the driver for the Prima Ballerina."
The crowd laughed.
We got into the Aston Martin—the same one from college, lovingly maintained. Elijah drove us home, his hand resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing patterns on my skin.
"Did you talk to your dad?" I asked quietly as we navigated the Chicago traffic.
The mood in the car shifted slightly. Not to fear, but to a somber acknowledgement of the past.
"Briefly," Elijah said. "He sent a text. Congratulations on the Hart Trophy. The stock price is up."
"Warm," I noted.
"He is who he is," Elijah shrugged. "He’s a business partner. Nothing more. He stays in his lane, I stay in mine. And he stays far away from you."
"I don't fear him anymore," I said. "He’s just a sad old man with a lot of money and no one to share it with."
"He chose his path," Elijah said. "We chose ours."
We pulled up to our brownstone in Lincoln Park. It was a beautiful building—historic, limestone, with a massive kitchen and a dance studio in the basement, just like he promised.
We walked inside. The house was quiet. Our dog—a massive, goofy Great Dane named Puck—greeted us with a tail wag that nearly knocked over a vase.
"Hey, buddy," Elijah murmured, scratching Puck behind the ears. "Did you guard the castle?"
I kicked off my sneakers and walked into the kitchen. I poured two glasses of water. No wine tonight.
"Come here," Elijah called from the living room.
I walked in. He had taken off his jacket and tie. He was unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the white undershirt and the hint of the tattoos beneath.
He was standing by the fireplace, looking at the mantle.
On the mantle, amidst the MVP trophies and the framed wedding photos, was a small, crumpled piece of paper in a glass box.
It was the original contract. Or what was left of it. The napkin we had written notes on during that first negotiation in the penthouse.
Rule #1: Attendance is mandatory.
I walked up to him and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind.
"Remember when you thought you could buy me?" I teased.
"I didn't buy you," he corrected, turning in my arms. "I invested in a volatile asset that yielded high returns."
"You’re such a finance bro."
"And you love it."
He lifted me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist—a movement so familiar it was like breathing. He carried me up the stairs to our bedroom.
The master bedroom was vast, decorated in the greys and blacks he loved, but softened by the velvet throws and plants I had insisted on.
He laid me on the bed. He loomed over me, bracing his weight on his hands.
"Phase Three," he whispered.
"Phase Three," I agreed.
The Bedroom
Elijah
Making love to Angela never got old.
In college, it had been frantic. A desperate need to consume each other before the world tore us apart.
Now, five years later, it was different. It was deeper. It was a language we spoke fluently.
I knew exactly where to touch her to make her gasp. I knew that after a performance, her hips were tight, and she needed me to take my time. I knew that she liked it when I used my "Captain voice"—the low, demanding tone that stripped away her control.
I stripped off my shirt, tossing it aside. I looked down at her. She was watching me, her eyes dark with desire.
"You’re beautiful," I said, unbuckling my belt.
"You’re arrogant," she countered, reaching up to run her hands over my chest. She traced the scar on my ribs—a souvenir from the finals two years ago.
"Take off the dress," I ordered.
She sat up and pulled the slip dress over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra. She rarely did anymore. Her breasts were perfect, pale and soft against the dark sheets.
She lay back down, opening her legs for me.
"No panties?" I asked, a grin tugging at my lips. A callback to that night at the casino.
"I dressed like I belonged to you," she whispered, repeating the words from years ago.
It broke me, just like it did then.
I shed the rest of my clothes and moved over her. I kissed her, tasting the lingering adrenaline of the performance.
"My girl," I groaned against her mouth. "My ballerina."
I entered her slowly. She was wet, tight, and perfect. She sighed, her legs locking around my waist, pulling me deeper.