Epilogue
Five Years Later
Peter
Madison Square Garden was vibrating.
It wasn't the college-stadium vibration of cheap bleachers and stomping feet. This was the deep, resonant hum of eighteen thousand people in a billion-dollar arena, screaming for blood. Or, more accurately, screaming for a save.
It was Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals. Rangers vs. Bruins. Overtime.
I stood in the crease, my breath fogging the inside of my mask. My legs burned with a familiar, lactic fire, but my mind was ice.
I was twenty-six years old. I was the highest-paid goaltender in the NHL. I had a Vezina Trophy on my mantle and a reputation as "The Wall of New York."
But in this moment, none of that mattered.
The only thing that mattered was the puck.
The Bruins center won the faceoff. He snapped it back to the point. A slap shot. I saw it through a screen of bodies. I tracked the rotation. I dropped into the butterfly.
The puck hit my chest protector with a thud that echoed in my bones. I swallowed the rebound. No second chance.
The whistle blew.
The crowd roared. VOL-KOV! VOL-KOV!
I stood up, shaking out my legs. I took a sip from my water bottle.
I looked up. Not at the Jumbotron. Not at the banners.
I looked at the glass-walled luxury suite in the corner. Box 314. (A number we chose specifically—the room number of the hotel in Maine).
I couldn't see inside—the tint was too dark—but I knew who was there.
Belinda.
She wasn't just watching. She was working. She was the Director of Analytics for the Rangers now. She sat up there with three monitors, a headset, and a terrifying amount of power, telling the coaching staff exactly which matchups were statistically favorable.
She was the brain. I was the shield.
We were unstoppable.
The faceoff was to my right.
"Let’s end this, boys!" I shouted through my mask.
We won the draw. Panarin broke out. A stretch pass. A deke. A goal.
The red light flashed. The horn blasted. The Garden exploded.
We were going to the Stanley Cup Finals.
The team mobbed me. I was buried under blue jerseys, smelling the expensive sweat of professional athletes. But my mind was already racing ahead. Past the handshake line. Past the media scrum. Past the shower.
I needed to get to the suite.
I walked out of the locker room an hour later. I was wearing a custom Italian suit (navy blue, silk lining). My hair was wet. My body ached in a hundred places.
But I felt light.
I walked down the private corridor toward the family waiting area.
She was standing by the door.
Belinda.
She looked... expensive. She wore a cream-colored silk blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers that made her legs look miles long.
Her hair was still that chic bob, but longer now, grazing her shoulders.
She wore glasses—tortoiseshell frames that I knew she only wore when she had been staring at screens for ten hours.
She was holding a clipboard in one hand and a baby carrier in the other.
"Nice game, Volkov," she said, looking up from her notes. "Although your rebound control in the second period was statistically sloppy. You gave up three high-danger chances."
"We won, Bee," I said, walking up to her.
"We won because the expected goals model favored us," she countered, trying to keep a straight face. "And because you stood on your head for forty-five minutes."
She dropped the clipboard on a nearby table. The professional mask slipped.
She threw her arms around my neck.
"You were amazing," she whispered into my ear. "God, you were amazing."
I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. I buried my face in her neck. She smelled the same. Vanilla. Peppermint. Home.
"Did you see the save on Pastrnak?" I asked, fishing for compliments like a rookie.
"The glove save? Yeah. I saw it. My heart rate monitor spiked to 140. You owe me a massage."
"Deal."
I set her down. I looked at the baby carrier on the floor.
"Is he awake?" I whispered.
"He slept through the goal horn," Bee sighed. "I think he’s going to be a heavy sleeper. Like his dad."
I knelt down.
Inside the carrier, wrapped in a blanket knitted with tiny Rangers logos (Bee’s handiwork had improved significantly), was Nikolai. Nico.
He was four months old. He had my dark hair and Bee’s hazel eyes.
He was perfect.
I reached out a finger. He stirred, grabbing it with a tiny, surprisingly strong fist.
"Hey, buddy," I whispered. "We won. Daddy’s going to the Finals."
Nico gurgled and blew a spit bubble.
"He’s impressed," Bee said, leaning against my shoulder. "Can we go home? My feet are killing me. These heels are a crime against ergonomics."
"Let’s go home," I said.
I picked up the carrier. Bee grabbed her clipboard (she never left it behind).
We walked out of the arena.
The paparazzi were waiting by the player’s exit. Flashes popped. People shouted.
“Peter! Peter! Are you ready for Vegas?”
“Belinda! What do the stats say about the Finals?”
“Can we see the baby?”
I put a protective hand on Bee’s back. I shielded Nico’s carrier with my body.
We walked straight to my car—a black SUV with tinted windows.
I opened the door for her. I strapped Nico into his base.
I got in the driver’s seat.
The silence of the car was instant relief.
"I hate them," Bee muttered, kicking off her heels. "The flashes give me a migraine."
"Two more weeks," I promised. "Then the season is over. We go to the lake house. No cameras. No phones. Just us and the trees."
"And Kevin," she added. "Kevin loves the lake."
"And Kevin," I agreed. "Although if he brings another dead fish into the living room, I’m trading him."
"You can't trade family, Volkov."
I smiled. I reached over the console and took her hand. I brought it to my lips, kissing the ring on her finger. A vintage diamond. Simple. Elegant.
"No," I said. "You can't."
Belinda
Our home was a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights.
It wasn't the loft. We had sold the loft two years ago when I got pregnant the first time (a false alarm, but it made us realize we needed walls and a yard).
This place was ours. It had warmth. It had color. The living room was filled with books, yarn baskets, and dog toys. The kitchen was a disaster zone of baby bottles and protein shake shakers.
It was chaotic. It was messy. It was perfect.
Peter carried Nico upstairs to the nursery. I went to the kitchen to pour two glasses of wine (one for me, one for Peter to stare at because he was still in 'Playoff Mode' and wouldn't drink alcohol until the season ended).
I heard Peter’s footsteps coming back down. He walked into the kitchen, having shed the suit jacket and tie. He was wearing his white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms.
He leaned against the counter, watching me.
"He’s down," Peter said. "Out cold."
"Good. Did you check the monitor?"
" twice. Temperature is 68 degrees. Humidity is 40%. Optimal sleeping conditions."
I smiled, handing him a glass of sparkling water. "You’re obsessed."
"I’m vigilant," he corrected. He took a sip. "So. The Finals."
"Vegas is fast," I said, switching immediately into work mode. "Their transition game is elite. We need to clog the neutral zone. If we try to run and gun with them, we’ll lose."
Peter laughed. He set his glass down and walked over to me. He boxed me in against the counter.
"Bee," he murmured. "I don't want to talk about the neutral zone."
"No?" I teased, running my hands up his chest. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I want to talk about the fact that my wife looks incredibly sexy in those trousers."
"These are my 'Serious Analyst' trousers," I said. "They command respect."
"They command something else entirely from me," he growled.
He kissed me.
It wasn't a quick peck. It was a deep, consuming kiss. Five years later, and he still kissed me like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.
His hands slid down my back, gripping my waist. He lifted me onto the counter.
"Peter," I gasped. "The windows. The neighbors."
"Let them watch," he muttered against my neck. "They can learn something."
He stepped between my legs. His hand moved to the buttons of my blouse.
"You’re exhausted," I whispered, though my body was already arching into him. "You just played overtime."
"I have reserves," he said. "For this? I always have reserves."
He unbuttoned my shirt. He unclasped my bra. His hands were rough, calloused from the stick, but his touch was so familiar, so right.
He looked at me. His grey eyes were dark, dilated.
"You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen," he said. "Better than the Vezina. Better than the Cup."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," I breathed.
"I know."
He made love to me right there on the kitchen counter. It wasn't frantic like our college days. It was measured. Powerful. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly the rhythm I needed.
We moved together in the quiet house, surrounded by the life we had built. The dog was snoring in the living room. The baby was sleeping upstairs. The city was humming outside.
But in here, it was just us. North and South.
When I climaxed, I cried out his name, burying my face in his shoulder to stifle the sound. He followed me moments later, groaning against my ear, his body shuddering with release.
We stayed like that for a long time. Me wrapped around him, him leaning against the counter, holding me up.
"I love you," he whispered into my hair.
"I love you too," I said. "Even when you’re sweaty."
He chuckled. He helped me down. He buttoned my shirt (wrong, missed a button, but it was cute).
"Come on," he said. "Let’s go sit on the couch. I want to hold you properly."
We sat on the oversized velvet couch. Kevin, our Newfoundland, immediately jumped up and laid his massive head on Peter’s lap. Peter didn't push him off. He just scratched behind the dog's ears.
I curled into Peter’s side. He wrapped a blanket around us—a yellow one I had knitted for our first anniversary. It was lopsided, but warm.
"Do you ever think about it?" Peter asked quietly, staring at the unlit fireplace.
"Think about what?"
"Blackwood. The roof. The reservoir. How close we came to missing all of this?"
I looked at his profile. He looked content. The shadows that used to haunt his eyes—the fear of his father, the fear of the debt—were gone.
"Sometimes," I admitted. "I think about the alternate timeline. The one where you didn't come to New York. The one where I stayed angry."
"That timeline sucks," Peter said. "I bet alternate-Peter is miserable. Probably living in a studio apartment eating ramen."
"And alternate-Bee is probably a cat lady," I said. "Knitting sweaters for angry felines."
Peter tightened his arm around me.
"I’m glad we’re in this timeline," he said.
"Me too."
"My dad called today," Peter said suddenly.
I looked up. "Nikolai? How is he?"
"Good. He’s celebrating. Blackwood won the conference title again. He sounded... happy. He asked about Nico."
"We should invite him up," I said. "For the Finals. He’d love to see you play."
"I already did," Peter said. "He’s coming Tuesday. And... your dad is coming too."
"My dad?" I laughed. "Thomas O’Shea and Nikolai Volkov in the same luxury suite? Is the stadium insured?"
"They get along now," Peter reminded me. "They bond over complaining about the referees. It’s their love language."
It was true. My father and Nikolai had formed a strange, grudging friendship over the years. They were two old hockey men who had both made mistakes, and who both loved their children.
"It’s funny," I said. "Five years ago, they were the villains. Now they’re the grandpas."
"Time changes the data," Peter said. "New variables. New outcomes."
He looked down at me.
"Are you happy, Bee?" he asked. "Really happy? Not just 'content' happy?"
I looked around the room. I listened to the baby monitor crackle softly. I felt the warmth of his body.
"I’m deliriously happy," I said. "I have everything I ever put on my vision board. Except the dishwasher."
"We have a dishwasher!"
"I know. But you load it wrong. It drives me crazy."
Peter laughed. He kissed my forehead.
"I’ll work on it," he promised. "I’ll analyze the loading mechanics."
"You do that."
I closed my eyes, resting my head on his chest.
"Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember the first time I saw you? In the film room?"
"When you projected porn onto the wall? Yes. Vaguely."
"I wasn't reading porn," I defended. "It was a romance novel. A classic."
"Right. The Earl’s Twitching Rod."
"Stop it." I hit his chest lightly. "But... do you remember what I thought? When you looked at me?"
"You thought I was a jerk."
"No," I said. "I thought you were the saddest person I had ever seen. You looked like you were carrying the sky on your shoulders."
Peter was quiet for a moment.
"I was," he whispered. "Until you helped me put it down."
He took my hand. He pressed it to his chest, right over the compass tattoo.
"You’re my North, Bee," he said. "Always have been. Always will be."
"And you’re my safe place," I said. "My wall."
We sat there in the quiet of our home, while the city slept around us.
The game was over. The season would end soon. The years would pass.
But we had built something that wouldn't crack. We had built something stronger than ice.
We had built a life.
And it was the greatest victory of all.