Epilogue
Epilogue
FINN
Eight months later, November
Our housewarming had quickly turned into a full-on Copperheads party.
Walker and I had deliberately invested his NHL money from before he was sent down the first time into this sprawling place near Rochester for moments just like this.
A perfect balance of privacy and community.
My commute to school was an easy forty-five minutes, close enough for comfort, yet far enough to avoid awkward encounters with parents in the grocery store aisles.
The house was everything we’d dreamed, spacious enough for Walker to host the entire team comfortably and for me to finally have my own art studio tucked into the attic, complete with wide windows overlooking a lake.
The studio quickly became my sanctuary, a place of light, color, and quiet.
Tonight, though, was anything but quiet.
The house buzzed with laughter and chatter, teammates spilling from the kitchen into the living room and even out onto the back porch.
Walker stood by the kitchen island, relaxed and smiling, the new captain of the Copperheads.
The leadership suited him, and confidence radiated from him as he helped build the team into something truly special.
The art guys—Chip, Taft, Arnaud, and Bob—were scattered throughout the crowd. Harper and Connor had long since disappeared somewhere, and their easy love warmed something deep in my chest. Family mingled with friends, blurring into a single vibrant picture of the life we’d built together.
A sudden eruption of noise from the garden drew everyone’s attention, and Walker and I crossed to the window.
Through the sliding glass doors, I spotted Bob waving his hands wildly at Arnaud, who was both amused and indignant.
Their argument had started inside, innocently enough with chirping, when Bob jokingly called Arnaud a sieve in their last game, an insult no goalie could tolerate.
Arnaud’s response was a quick and pointed stream of French I couldn’t follow, which launched Bob into orbit, and they headed outside to talk, and now what the hell was going on?
“Anyone catch what he said?” Walker asked, slipping his arm around my waist as we watched the unfolding drama.
“No idea,” I replied. “But Bob looks ready to explode.”
“Bob always looks ready to explode.” Taft sighed, coming up beside us with a fresh beer in his hand.
Chip joined us. “Did you know that statistically, team arguments result in a 4.3 percent decrease in pass accuracy during games? Last season, Miller and Andrews argued about sock thickness for thirty-seven minutes, and the team’s subsequent game accuracy dropped by exactly that amount. I documented it.”
We all stared at Chip, who blinked at us steadily. “What?”
“Standard deviation of 0.5 percent,” Chip added.
“Wow, 4.3 percent?” Walker frowned. He took having the C on his chest very seriously. “I need to fix this.”
“How do you plan on fixing that?” Taft snorted and waved at the two men under the patio heater, Bob shoving Arnaud and our flexible goalie ducking under his arm. Bob was apoplectic, Arnaud was grinning, and they were wrestling like a couple of kids.
“Should I break it up?” Walker asked.
“No!” we all chorused—no one got in between those two when they started to bicker.
Chip tilted his head slightly. “Did you know the Otters had an 8.6 percent increase in penalties last season because of unresolved sexual tension between teammates Nelson and Ferreira? Statistically significant.”
“Huh?” Taft sounded shocked.
“The fuck?” Walker said, wide-eyed, mouth dropping open. The four of us stood at the window, Chip nodding.
“Well, that explains a lot,” Taft finally offered.
“Wow, 8.6 percent,” Chip repeated. “I need carrots.” He then wandered off, leaving Walker, Taft, and me at the window, staring at Bob and Arnaud, who were now pushing, shoving, and shouting.
Hell, even Arnaud was shouting now, and that was dangerous.
They gave each other one last shove, and then Bob stormed toward the back door and we all pretended not to watch at all.
The back door slammed open. “Do something before I kill him!” Bob shouted at Walker as he passed us.
“I’m going home!” He began to storm away but, then, he stopped, came back to me and pressed a kiss on my head.
“Great party, Finn. Sorry.” He left then, the front door slamming as dramatically as he’d opened the back.
Arnaud sauntered in as though he weren’t angry, but he was red-cheeked and still muttering fiercely in French.
The only words I caught clearly were something about “an angry bear needing his claws clipped,” which made absolutely no sense to any of us.
When he headed over to the fridge for another drink, none of us dared ask what he meant.
Some things were best left unexplained, especially with irate French-Canadian goalies.
“I’ll fix it,” Walker said. “Make them ride the bus together for every away game.”
“Yeah, that’ll work,” Taft deadpanned, then shrugged when Walker scowled at him. “Worth a try, I guess. Beer?”
I waved my half-full bottle, and Walker shook his head.
I leaned into his warmth, breathing in the moment. “You’ll fix it,” I reassured him, as he started to look worried.
And I had no doubt he would fix things. We’d come so far, each of us separately and together, building something real, something lasting. And standing there, surrounded by our family and friends, I knew it was exactly where I was meant to be.
Home.
With Walker.
“Love you,” I whispered, rising onto my toes to brush my lips softly against his, determined to chase away the lingering worry from his eyes.
Walker cupped my face gently, deepening the kiss until the world around us faded into warmth and comfort.
We only pulled apart when the laughter, cheers, and exaggerated wolf whistles from our friends became impossible to ignore.
“Love you more,” he murmured against my lips, eyes twinkling with a promise that went deeper than words.
“Impossible,” I said softly.
“I can prove it,” Walker said with a playful raise of his eyebrow.
“Yeah?” I teased back, unable to suppress my grin.
Walker turned dramatically toward our family and friends. “Party’s over! Everyone out, now!”
Amid the laughter, protests, and good-natured teasing, our guests slowly dispersed, leaving the house quiet and just ours. And once the last car pulled away, Walker showed me exactly how much he loved me.
Twice.