Epilogue Oakley Kate
The rink feels bright and loud as light bounces off the ice and kids’ laughter fills the space.
A few weeks have passed since my contract was finalized and the acceptance email hit my inbox.
Steele Valley has settled into its usual rhythm—practice schedules, training sessions, and my new badge clipped to my jacket: Oakley Taylor – Athletic Trainer.
Our mornings run smoother now. Silas heads to practice, Aubrey chases toast crumbs with her orange juice, and I stretch my ankle before putting on my shoes. Nothing dramatic—just a family figuring things out.
Today is Little Volts Day, and kids from all over the area are getting a rare shot at hockey in the South.
Thorn pretends he wasn’t the one who organized the whole event.
Hannah’s taking photos for the team socials.
The rink smells like cocoa, cold air, and a hint of something sweet drifting from the concession table.
I’m on the bench tying skates for a kid whose gloves swallow his hands. Silas is out on the ice, gliding backward in that calm, easy way that still earns cheers. Aubrey’s wobbling along on her new skates, knees bent, tongue out, heading toward a cluster of players’ kids.
“Bend, bug,” Silas calls. “Bend, don’t stiffen!”
“I’m bending!” she shouts back, part indignation, part joy.
“She actually is bending,” Thorn says beside me, taking a sip of coffee.
“That’s because she’s stubborn,” I reply.
He laughs. “Wonder where she gets that.”
“Guilty.”
Aubrey finally reaches Silas and grabs his glove like she just won a medal. He grins down at her, and for once, he’s not looking over his shoulder or scanning the room. He’s just happy.
Hannah snaps a picture. “This one’s going in the feature. Team Dad Edition.”
Silas rolls his eyes at me through the glass. I give him a wink.
When the session ends, the lights dim to a warm gold. Families drift toward the exit. Thorn rounds up a few stragglers while Hannah steals his coffee and walks off. Rooks skates a goofy lap with a toddler balanced on his stick, nearly wiping out at the boards.
I gather a few stray gloves and listen to the sound of blades fading.
Silas walks toward me, unhurried, holding Aubrey’s hand and carrying both helmets. “She scored a goal,” he says.
“It was an own goal,” Aubrey announces proudly, “but it still counts because it went in.”
“Hard to argue with physics,” I say. “We’re celebrating it.”
“Pizza?” she asks immediately.
“Definitely,” Silas and I say at the same time, and she lights up.
Hannah calls her goodbyes. Thorn gives Silas a quick salute that clearly means You did great. Aubrey’s already racing toward the stands, claiming she’ll beat me to the car.
Once she’s out the door, the rink goes quiet again. The compressors hum across the empty sheet.
Silas offers me his hand. “Come on. One lap.”
“Not in boots,” I say.
“Then just the line.”
I step onto the rubber mat we set down earlier. He glides out to center ice, turns, and waits for me. He’s patient in a way he never used to be.
I meet him at the edge of the mat. He reaches for my hand.
“Feels different, doesn’t it?” he asks.
“It does. Quieter.”
“A better quiet,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He looks around the rink—at the banners, the benches, the corners where the past used to sit heavy. “You think about what’s next?”
“All the time,” I admit. “Classes start next week. I’m nervous.”
He brushes his thumb along my wrist. “Being nervous means you care.”
I nod. “And you? Ready for the season stretch?”
“Always.” Then, softer: “But this—this right here—feels like a win I didn’t expect.”
I lean into him. “You mean the kid who counts own goals?”
“She’s part of it,” he says, smiling against my hair. “So are you. So is this town.”
“This town loves you.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’ll take it.”
We stand there for a while, half listening to the rink and half listening to the quiet after it. My badge taps lightly against the zipper of his jacket.
When the lights drop to half power, he squeezes my hand. “Home?”
“Home,” I say.
The drive back is peaceful. Aubrey sings off-key until she falls asleep mid-chorus, still holding her stuffed unicorn. The headlights wash over the porch as we pull in.
Inside, the house smells faintly like pine and cocoa. The snow globe sits tucked behind a bit of evergreen, gathering dust and meaning. I leave it where it is.
Silas carries Aubrey to bed, moving with practiced ease. I wait at the bottom of the steps and listen to him talk to her in that quiet voice he only uses at night. It’s calm, patient, familiar. Safe.
When he comes back down, I’m on the porch getting a little air. He drapes a blanket over both our shoulders and leans against the railing beside me.
“Think we’ll get snow this year?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”
He nods, like that’s a good enough answer. “I’ll take a maybe.”
I huff a small laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”
The neighborhood is quiet. A couple of porch lights glow down the street. Someone’s dog barks once and then stops. The house behind us settles—heat kicking on, a faint creak from upstairs where Aubrey shifted in her sleep. Normal sounds. Easy ones.
Silas slips his hand into mine and gives it a small squeeze. I squeeze back without overthinking it.
“We should head in,” he says after a moment.
“Probably,” I agree, but neither of us moves yet.
We stay there another minute, just standing together in the cool air, sharing a blanket and the end of the day. Nothing big. Nothing complicated. Just us.
Then we go inside, closing the door behind us, the three of us under the same roof again—something steady, something workable, something that finally feels like a life we’re building, one ordinary night at a time.