Epilogue
Five Years Later
Toby
The Stanley Cup is heavier than it looks.
It weighs thirty-four and a half pounds, silver and gleaming and etched with the names of legends. I had lifted it over my head ten minutes ago, screaming until my lungs burned, while twenty-one thousand people in the Bell Centre lost their collective minds.
But right now, sitting in the quiet of the private family room deep in the bowels of the arena, the Cup felt light compared to the weight of the small, velvet box in my pocket.
"You look like you're going to throw up," Jager said, handing me a bottle of water.
Jager had retired last year after a knee injury. He was now an assistant coach for the Canadiens, which meant I still had to listen to him every day. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my first car, but his tie was already crooked.
"I'm fine," I lied, taking the water. "Just adrenaline."
"Adrenaline usually makes you chatter," Jager pointed out. "Silence makes you Kincaid. You're in Robot Mode. Snap out of it, Cap. You just won the Cup. You're the MVP. You have eighty-four million dollars. Smile."
"I'll smile when she gets here," I muttered, checking my watch.
"She's coming," Jager assured me. "She had to do an interview with ESPN about the 'Artist Behind the Athlete' piece. Apparently, painting murals of your face on city walls is good for ratings."
I chuckled. Georgia’s career had exploded.
She wasn't just "Toby Kincaid's girlfriend" anymore.
She was Georgia Sterling, the artist whose raw, emotional abstract expressionism was currently the toast of the North American art world.
Her "Ice and Storm" series—inspired by our chaotic year in Duluth—had sold out in New York, London, and Tokyo.
She was famous. She was successful. She was independent.
And in about twenty minutes, I was going to ask her to give up her last name.
The door opened.
Chaos spilled in—reporters, family members, teammates holding champagne bottles.
But I only saw her.
She stood in the doorway, a vision in red. She was wearing a vintage silk dress that looked suspiciously like the one she had worn the night she broke into my penthouse five years ago. But this one wasn't wet. And she wasn't crying.
She was glowing.
Her platinum hair was long again, cascading in waves over her shoulders. Her lips were painted that signature ruby red. She was holding a golden retriever on a leash—Puck, who was wearing a tiny Canadiens jersey with "DAD" on the back.
She saw me. Her face lit up with a smile that knocked the wind out of me.
"Toby!"
She dropped the leash (Puck immediately ran to Jager, looking for treats) and ran to me.
I met her halfway. I caught her as she launched herself into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist. It was our move. It would always be our move.
"You did it!" she screamed in my ear. "Oh my God, you did it!"
"We did it," I corrected, burying my face in her neck. She smelled of vanilla and expensive perfume and victory. "I couldn't have done it without the lucky jersey."
"I wasn't wearing it!" she laughed, pulling back to look at me. "I wore the red dress! For luck! Remember?"
"I remember," I said, my eyes darkening. "I remember everything about the red dress."
She smirked, tracing the scar on my eyebrow. "Later, Captain. Right now, you have a shiny trophy to show off."
"I don't care about the trophy," I said honestly. "I just want to go home."
"Soon," she promised. "But first, you have to let me take a picture of you with the Cup. For the archives. And for my Instagram."
"Only if you're in it."
We posed. The flashbulbs popped. Jager threw ice cubes at us. Puck barked.
It was perfect. It was loud. It was chaotic.
It was my life. And I loved every second of it.
Georgia
Our home in Old Montreal was exactly what we had dreamed of in that tiny Paris apartment.
It was a converted warehouse loft with twenty-foot ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the St. Lawrence River. It had a massive kitchen (for Toby’s protein-obsessed cooking), a state-of-the-art gym (with reinforced floors), and the entire north wall was my studio.
It was messy. It was cluttered with canvases, hockey gear, and dog toys.
It was us.
We stumbled in at 3:00 AM, exhausted, happy, and slightly tipsy from the champagne.
Puck trotted in, did a circle on his bed, and passed out immediately.
Toby locked the door. He leaned against it, loosening his tie. He was still wearing his suit pants and dress shirt, though the jacket was gone. His hair was messy. He had a playoff beard that was thick and dark.
He looked like a king who had just conquered a kingdom and was ready to claim his reward.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi," I smiled, kicking off my heels. "You're home, Champ."
"I am."
He walked over to me. He didn't touch me right away. He just looked at me. His gray eyes were clear, focused, intense. It was the "True North" look.
"What?" I asked, feeling a blush rise on my cheeks. Even after five years, he could still make me blush.
"I was just thinking," he said. "About the night you broke into the penthouse."
I laughed. "The night I ruined your life?"
"The night you saved it," he corrected. "I was drowning, Georgia. I was drowning in expectations and money and fear. And you... you broke the lock with a bobby pin and dragged me to the surface."
"You dragged me too," I whispered, stepping closer. "I was a mess. A spoiled, scared little girl."
"You were never spoiled," he said fiercely. "You were just armored. And I love every dent in that armor."
He reached out and took my hand. His thumb traced the silver band on my ring finger—the promise ring with the coordinates. I hadn't taken it off in five years.
"Georgia," he said, his voice dropping to that gravelly rumble that melted my bones. "We've been through hell. We fought your father. We fought my father. We fought the NCAA. We fought the distance."
"And we won," I said.
"We won," he agreed. "But I realized tonight, lifting that Cup... winning isn't the end goal. It's just a milestone."
"Okay..." I tilted my head. "Where is this going, Kincaid? Are you retiring to become a philosopher?"
He chuckled nervously. Toby Kincaid, the MVP, the Ice King... was nervous.
He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a black velvet box.
My heart stopped. My hands flew to my mouth.
"Toby..."
He dropped to one knee. Right there on the hardwood floor, amidst the dog toys and the smell of turpentine and victory.
"Georgia Sterling," he said, looking up at me with eyes that shone with unshed tears. "You are my anchor. You are my compass. You are my home. I don't want to spend another day on this earth without you having my name. I want to build a life with you. A loud, messy, chaotic life."
He opened the box.
Inside sat a diamond. It was massive. An emerald cut, flawless, set on a thin platinum band. But tucked next to it, nestled in the velvet, was a small, brass key.
The key to the storage unit. The first promise he ever made me.
"Will you marry me?" he asked. "Will you be my partner, my wife, my True North?"
Tears streamed down my face. I couldn't speak. I nodded frantically.
"Yes," I choked out. "Yes, yes, yes!"
He stood up. He pulled the ring out and slid it onto my finger, right next to the silver band.
Then he kissed me.
It was the best kiss of my life. It tasted of champagne and forever.
He picked me up, spinning me around, his laughter echoing off the high ceilings.
"She said yes!" he shouted to the empty room. "Puck! She said yes!"
Puck lifted his head, gave a sleepy woof, and went back to sleep.
"He's thrilled," I laughed, wiping my tears.
"He's resting," Toby said, setting me down. "Because he knows his parents are about to be very busy."
He looked at me with a heat that scorched.
"Bedroom," he growled.
"Bedroom," I agreed.
Our bedroom was a sanctuary. White sheets. Gray walls. A painting of a storm hanging over the bed—the first one I ever sold, which Toby had secretly bought back from the collector for triple the price as a wedding gift to himself.
He undressed me slowly. Reverently.
The red dress pooled on the floor. The silk underwear followed.
I undressed him. The shirt. The pants.
He was more scarred now. Five years of pro hockey had left its mark. New white lines on his shoulders. A jagged scar on his knee from surgery.
I kissed every single one of them.
"You're beautiful," I whispered, running my hands down his chest.
"I'm battered," he murmured.
"You're a masterpiece."
He laid me down on the bed.
This wasn't the frantic sex of our college days. This wasn't the desperate, secret sex of the scandal.
This was knowing.
He knew exactly where to touch me. He knew the spot on my neck that made me shiver. He knew the pressure I liked on my hips.
He entered me slowly, watching my face.
"Mine," he whispered.
"Yours," I answered. "Always."
We moved together in a rhythm that was as natural as breathing. It was deep. It was slow. It was the feeling of coming home after a long, cold winter.
"I love you," he said, over and over again, like a prayer against my skin.
"I love you, Toby."
When the climax came, it wasn't an explosion. It was a wave. A warm, golden wave that washed over us, leaving us breathless and clinging to each other in the aftermath.
We lay there for a long time, listening to the city outside.
"Toby?" I whispered, tracing patterns on his chest.
"Hmm?"
"I have a secret."
He tensed slightly. Old habits died hard. "What kind of secret? Good or bad?"
"Good," I smiled. "I think."
I took his hand—the one with the championship ring tan line—and placed it on my stomach.
He froze.
His gray eyes flew open. He looked at me, wide-eyed, terrified, hopeful.
"Georgia?" he breathed. "Are you...?"
"I took a test this morning," I whispered. "Before the game. That's why I was nauseous. It wasn't just the overtime."
He stared at my stomach. His hand was trembling.
"A baby?" he whispered. "We're having a baby?"
"We're having a team," I corrected.
Toby Kincaid—the Silencer, the MVP, the man who never cried—burst into tears.
He buried his face in my neck, sobbing happy, broken tears.
"Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you for saving me. Thank you for giving me a life."
I held him tight, running my fingers through his hair.
"You saved yourself, Toby," I said. "I just gave you a reason to fight."
He pulled back, wiping his eyes. He looked at me with a fierce determination.
"I'm going to be a good father," he swore. "Not like mine. I'm going to be there. I'm going to watch every game. I'm going to hang every drawing on the fridge."
"I know you will," I said. "You'll be the best."
He kissed my stomach. Softly. Reverently.
"Hi," he whispered to the tiny life inside me. "I'm your dad. And I promise... I will never let you fall."
Six Months Later
The nursery was painted a soft, stormy blue.
It was chaos, of course. Boxes of diapers. Unassembled furniture. Puck sleeping in the middle of the rug, guarding a stuffed penguin.
Toby sat in the rocking chair, holding a screwdriver, staring at the crib instructions with the same intensity he used to study game film.
"Tab A into Slot B," he muttered. "This is harder than the Boston power play."
I stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. My belly was round now, pressing against my t-shirt. I rubbed it absentmindedly.
"Need a physio?" I asked.
He looked up. He smiled. It was the smile that had won me over in a coffee shop five years ago.
"I need an artist," he said. "This diagram makes no sense. It's abstract."
I walked over to him. I sat on the arm of the chair.
He wrapped his arm around my waist, resting his head on my bump.
"She's kicking," he said, his voice filled with wonder.
"She's practicing her skating," I said.
"She's going to be a forward," he decided. "Aggressive. Like her mother."
"She's going to be an artist," I countered. "Messy. Like her mother."
"She's going to be perfect," he said. "Like us."
He stood up, pulling me into a hug.
We looked around the room. It was messy. It was loud. It was imperfect.
But it was ours.
"We did good, Kincaid," I said.
"We did good, Sterling," he replied. "Wait. Kincaid. You're a Kincaid now."
"On paper," I teased. "In spirit, I'm still the girl who broke into your house."
"And I'm still the guy who didn't call the cops."
He kissed me.
Outside, the snow began to fall on Montreal. A white blanket covering the city.
But inside, it was warm.
The ice age was over. The storm had passed.
And the only thing left was the fire.