Epilogue #2
The music shifts—something upbeat and loud enough to make the floor tremble.
Todd drags Peter out to the edge of the dance floor, muttering something about “broadening horizons,” and for once, Peter doesn’t fight it.
Daniel joins Luke, already waving his hands above his head like he’s performing on stage.
Max and I linger near the edge, watching them spin and laugh under the strobe lights. He looks out at them, at me, at everything—and then leans down until his lips brush my ear.
“You happy?” he asks.
I look up at him. “Completely.”
He nods once, that quiet smile tugging at his mouth, the one that still feels like a secret only I get to see.
Luke spots us from the dance floor and points dramatically. “If you two don’t come dance right now, I’m telling the DJ to put on ‘Last Christmas’ in your honor!”
Max groans. “I hate your friends.”
I grin, tugging him forward. “You love them.”
“Not the way I love you,” he mutters, but he lets me pull him into the crowd.
The music swells, the lights blur, and when he finally gives in—hands on my waist, forehead against mine—it feels like everything we fought for has finally settled into place.
No hiding. No pretending. Just us.
I glance around at our friends laughing: Todd smiling in a way I haven’t seen before, Luke and Daniel twirling like they own the place, and Peter trying and failing not to have fun.
It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s perfect.
And when Max kisses me there in the middle of it all, I know—this is home.
Later, when we spill out into the cold night, snow dusting down in lazy flakes, Max tucks me close against his side to keep me warm.
The streetlights glow gold around us, soft and hazy, catching in his hair.
And for a heartbeat, I think about the photo I gave Max last Christmas—the two of us laughing like we had the whole world ahead of us at that Christmas Market.
We didn’t know it then, but we were right.
Because this—him beside me, our friends ahead of us, laughter echoing down the street—is exactly what that picture promised.
We became it.
Max
4 years later
The ice looks the same everywhere—cold, bright, endless—but this one hums a little louder. The logo at center ice is the Carolina Hurricanes, the same one stitched across Eli’s brand-new jersey.
He’s standing at the far end of the rink now, helmet off, grin wide enough to light the place. Cameras flash, staff mill around, and someone’s already posting clips of the team’s new rookie goalie. My goalie.
I lean on the boards, clipboard tucked under my arm, pretending I’m here strictly in my official capacity as assistant athletic trainer. The gold band on my left hand catches the light and blows my cover.
Coach walks by and claps my shoulder. “Looks like we made a good call, Calder. He’s gonna be a wall for us.”
“Always has been,” I say.
The coach nods and moves on, leaving me watching Eli through the glass.
He’s in his element—focused, loose, alive.
Every time he drops into position, I can feel that same ache I had the first time I saw him on the ice at school.
Pride, awe, love—it all blends together until I can’t tell the difference anymore.
He skates toward me between drills, flipping his mask up. “How’s my form?” he calls.
“Textbook,” I say. “Show-off.”
He grins. “You love it.”
“I married it,” I remind him, holding up my hand, so he can see the ring glint again.
He laughs, that same bright sound that’s been home for years, and taps the glass with his stick before skating back to the crease.
My contract says I’m not to cross professional lines, but it also says—thanks to a very persistent lawyer and one hell of an HR meeting—that my marriage to Eli Starling-Calder doesn’t violate team policy. We keep it professional at work, personal everywhere else. It’s a balance we’ve perfected.
When practice ends, the arena empties out to the hum of compressors and the scrape of the Zamboni. Eli’s the last off the ice, as always. He unlatches the gate, helmet under his arm, cheeks red from working hard.
I hand him a towel. “You look good out there.”
“Good?” he echoes, mock-offended. “You mean phenomenal.”
“Arrogant,” I counter, smiling.
He leans in, drops his voice. “You love that, too.”
He’s right. I do.
He slings an arm around my shoulders as we walk down the tunnel together, his skates clacking against the mat. The sound echoes, steady, familiar, like a heartbeat.
Four years, and somehow, it still feels new.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the sky’s gone soft and gray, the kind of Carolina evening that smells faintly like rain.
Eli’s still buzzing from practice, talking a mile a minute about his glove saves and how good it feels to be on NHL ice.
I let him talk, just listening, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his knee.
He doesn’t notice how cleaned up the house looks until I turn the key in the lock and nudge the door open.
There are flowers on the counter—his favorites, the orange ones that look like they’re on fire. The dining table’s set, candles ready, and something warm and buttery is already in the oven.
Eli steps inside, blinking. “Did we get robbed by Martha Stewart?”
I smirk. “You’ll see.”
He doesn’t make it a few feet before he stops short. “Uh…did you cook?”
“Maybe,” I say, trying not to grin.
He sets his gear bag down just as his family comes around the corner from the kitchen.
“Surprise!”
His mom’s voice fills the house before she even rounds the corner. She’s wiping her hands on a dishtowel, already misty-eyed. My mom is right behind her, a smile on her face. His dad follows, grinning so wide it’s contagious, and Jules brings up the rear, phone raised to film the whole thing.
Eli blinks, frozen mid-step. “What—how—what are you guys doing here?”
“Celebrating,” Jules declares, panning her camera dramatically. “Carolina’s newest goalie and his very patient husband! Say hi to the internet!”
Ava laughs through a sniffle, reaching for him. “You didn’t think we’d miss this, did you? Your first day with the Hurricanes?”
“It’s so nice that you and Max are working for the same team,” my mom says, giving me a soft smile. “You two really don’t know how to do anything apart, do you?”
“That’s what makes them perfect,” Ava says, giving her a fond look. “They’re two halves of the same Christmas cookie, aren’t they?”
My mom chuckles. “Maybe—but they make a pretty perfect duo.”
They both laugh, the easy kind that says they’ve known each other a while now—shared holidays, dinners, and too many phone calls trading recipes and stories. Seeing them together still gets me sometimes.
Brett claps Eli on the back. “We’re proud of you, son. Both of you.”
Eli glances at me over his mom’s shoulder, eyes wide and shining. “You did this?”
I shrug, trying for casualness. “Maybe I made a few calls.”
He crosses the room in two strides and kisses me—full, easy, completely unguarded.
Jules groans behind her camera. “Ugh, you two are so gross. Can’t even give us a warning?”
His mom shakes her head with a smile. “Leave them alone, Jules. It’s sweet.”
Eli rests his forehead against mine, voice low enough only I can hear. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Worth it,” I murmur.
Dinner turns into a blur of warmth and noise.
Jules keeps live-commentating, Ava insists on a dozen family photos, and Brett retells the story of Eli’s first hockey game like it’s a legend.
My mom jumps right in with her own version of my first day on the ice, exaggerating just enough to make Eli snort into his drink.
Ava teases her that they should start a podcast—Moms on Ice—and the two of them dissolve into laughter that fills the whole room.
By the time the dishes are stacked and the candles burn low, Eli leans into me on the couch, head tucked under my chin.
“You really did all this?” he asks.
“Wanted you to have something to come home to,” I say.
He looks up at me, eyes tired but happy. “You are home.”
Outside, the porch lights cast a soft halo across the yard, and a few fireflies blink near the trees, like they’ve decided to make a late-season encore. The night hums warm and still.
I tighten my hold on him and smile against his hair. “I love you.”
He hums, fingers finding mine. “I love you, too.”
Later that night, after everyone’s gone and the house has gone still, I wander down the hallway. The air still smells faintly like rosemary and lemon from dinner, like laughter if laughter had a scent.
The soft glow from the living room spills partway down the hall, catching on the frame that hangs halfway between our bedroom and the kitchen—the one I pass a dozen times a day without really looking.
Tonight, I stop.
It’s the charity calendar photo. The shot that started everything. Eli made me frame it, unwilling to part with the picture. I understand, because it is our beginning.
The two of us, wrapped in Christmas lights, faces too close, eyes locked like the rest of the world had gone quiet just for us. It was supposed to be a joke. The lighting tech said the tension in the shot could power a city. Back then, I didn’t even know what to do with what I felt.
Now I do.
The man in that photo looks a little younger, a little more afraid. I can almost remember what it was like to fight it—to think that wanting him could break something in me. But it didn’t. It built something instead.
A home. A life. Him.
There’s a sound behind me—bare feet on the hardwood. Eli’s voice, soft and sleepy. “You’re staring at it again.”
“Caught me,” I say quietly.
He pads up beside me, head tipping against my shoulder as he follows my gaze. “We look good.”
I huff a small laugh. “We look like two idiots wrapped in lights.”
“Exactly,” he says, smiling. “Best thing we ever did.”
He turns his face toward mine, brushing his lips against my jaw. The lights from the living room catch in his wedding ring, and something in my chest goes still, peaceful, sure.
I kiss the top of his head and whisper, “Yeah. It was.”
He squeezes my hand once, then tugs me gently back toward the bedroom, leaving the photo glowing faintly behind us in the hall.
And for a moment, I look over my shoulder—just once—at the picture that started it all. At the two of us, caught in that endless moment of tension and light.
We made it.
The Grinch didn’t steal Christmas. He just fell in love with it.
The End