Epilogue
Logan
The locker room is a wall of noise after the game—sticks clattering, laughter echoing off metal benches, steam from the showers fogging up the corners of the room. It smells like sweat, victory, and whatever body spray Blue practically bathes in.
We won. Nationals. Our last game of the year. We played our best game all season. Every shift felt like fire under my skates, every pass with Todd instinctive, clean, and unstoppable. We’ve been building to this all season, and tonight, it finally clicked.
I’m peeling off my jersey when the door swings open, and Coach steps inside. That’s enough to quiet half the room because Coach never comes in right away. He gives us space. Lets us decompress.
But now he’s walking straight toward me with purpose written in every line of his face. My pulse spikes.
“Brooks,” he says, voice steady.
I freeze halfway out of my pads. “Yeah, Coach?”
He stops two feet in front of my stall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“There’s someone here to see you,” he says. Then adds with a smile, almost like he can’t help himself, “A scout.”
The noise in the locker room dies instantly.
My heart slams against my ribs. A scout.
For me. I had already convinced myself that the NHL had probably been too big of a dream, even for me.
Shit. Excitement courses through me, and then I remember Todd.
He hasn’t been scouted yet either. The adrenaline dies a little as I find his gaze across the space.
He doesn’t look jealous or unhappy, he just looks…proud. My heart clenches. I want to kiss him right here.
He gives me the smallest nod—barely a tilt of his chin—but it hits me like a goddamn freight train. A silent I told you. A You deserve this. A silent, I’ll be right here.
My breath goes uneven, but I nod back, equally small, equally loaded.
Coach follows my line of sight, eyes cutting to Todd.
“And you too, Shaw.”
The entire room erupts in cheers. Blue shoves Daniel so hard he falls onto his ass.
Eli whoops like someone just scored a hat trick in OT.
Peter slaps Todd’s shoulder so hard he stumbles forward.
And Todd’s eyes widen with shock before they dart back to mine, full of disbelief and joy and something so big it squeezes my lungs tight.
A scout wants to see both of us.
Together. This has been what we’ve dreamed about for months.
Coach gives us each one firm nod. “Get dressed. Don’t keep him waiting.”
Then he turns and leaves, door swinging shut behind him.
The locker room explodes again—everyone yelling, chirping, congratulating. But all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears. And then the steady sound of Todd’s breathing as he crosses the space and wraps his arms around me.
“You’re gonna kill this,” he says. Quiet. Certain. Like he never doubted it for a second.
I can’t speak. Not right away. I just look at him—really look at him—and wonder how the hell I ever played a game before he was in my life.
Then I swallow hard and murmur, “We both are.”
Because we will.
Together.
Coach leads us down the hallway toward one of the back conference rooms the school uses for meetings and film reviews.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead; the tile squeaks under our sneakers.
Todd walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush occasionally, not on purpose, just because neither of us is willing to drift farther apart right now.
My heart is pounding so hard it's a miracle no one hears it.
Coach stops outside the door, turns to us, and rests a hand on each of our shoulders.
“He’s legit,” he says quietly. “And he asked for both of you. Take this seriously.”
We both nod. Todd swallows hard.
Coach knocks once, opens the door, and gestures us in.
The scout is already standing—mid-forties, clean-cut, sharp suit, sharp eyes, a portfolio open on the table in front of him. He looks like someone who has made and broken careers with a single pen stroke.
But when he sees us, he smiles.
“Logan Brooks,” he says, extending a hand. “And Todd Shaw. I’ve been waiting to meet you two.”
My palms are sweating, but I shake his hand. Todd does the same.
“Please, sit.”
We do.
He stays standing for a moment, studying us in a way that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand up. But then he nods, like something has just confirmed itself in his head.
“I won’t waste your time,” he begins. “I’m here representing the New Jersey Devils.”
Todd stiffens beside me. I feel every muscle in him lock up.
The Devils.
A real NHL team. One that doesn’t send scouts on feel-good field trips.
The scout continues, flipping open the portfolio.
“I’ve been following your stats closely this season. Both of you have standout numbers—speed, positioning, hockey IQ. But what I’m most impressed by”—he looks up again—“is your chemistry.”
My throat goes dry.
Todd glances sideways at me, stunned.
“You two,” the scout says, “play like a pair of gears that were machined to fit together. I haven’t seen defensive synergy like this in years.”
He taps his pen against the paper.
“And we want it.”
My pulse jumps. “You mean—”
“I mean we want both of you,” he says firmly. “Together. As a package deal.”
Todd goes completely still.
“We’re prepared to offer each of you an invitation to our Prospect Development Camp this summer. If you both accept—and if you perform the way I believe you will—you’ll be offered a joint contract.”
“A… joint contract?” Todd whispers.
The scout nods. “There are players who elevate a team alone. And then there are pairs who elevate each other. You two are the latter. We want the synergy. The instinct. The trust.”
He folds his hands on the table.
“In short: we don’t want Logan without Todd. And we don’t want Todd without Logan.”
I swear the room tilts for a second.
Todd stares at him like he’s trying to process every word slowly so he doesn’t mishear it.
“Together?” Todd finally asks, voice rough. “Same team?”
“Yes,” the scout says simply. “Same team. Same track. Same future.”
My chest tightens so hard I have to grip the edge of my chair. Of course this is what we wanted. Being separated wasn’t something either one of us wanted. We just didn’t expect it to come like this.
Todd’s knee bumps mine under the table—accidental, but it feels like a lifeline. His eyes meet mine, wide and shining with disbelief and something warm and fierce. Something that looks a hell of a lot like joy.
The scout gives us both a small smile, like he already knows the answer.
“Think about it,” he says. “Talk it over. I’ll give you until tomorrow.”
Then he stands, shakes our hands again, and leaves us sitting there in stunned silence. Todd exhales shakily.
And then, without looking away from the door the scout disappeared through, he whispers, “Logan…holy shit.”
I laugh, half breath, half shock, feeling like my heart’s going to burst. “Yeah. Holy shit.”
He turns to me slowly, eyes soft, voice even softer. “We get to do this together.”
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. We do.”
He lets out a trembling exhale. And then Todd—my love and heart—leans in and presses his forehead to mine. “Together.”
Months Later
The energy in the arena is almost overwhelming. The kind that thrums under your skin and makes your heart beat like it’s trying to break free.
Todd sits beside me in the tight row of seats, knees bouncing, tie already loosened like he’s been wrestling with it for an hour.
His hand brushes mine every few seconds.
We’re both wired and terrified and stupidly hopeful.
It was a long summer of training, but we made it, and now we find out if it means anything.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters.
“Like what?” I whisper.
“Like you know something I don’t.”
“I always know something you don’t,” I say, and he huffs a laugh that doesn’t hide how nervous he is.
Screens flash, cameras sweep the crowd, names echo across the arena. My heart trips every time the commissioner steps up to the mic—even when it isn’t our turn yet.
Todd leans in and murmurs, “If they don’t call us—”
“They will,” I whisper back.
He swallows. “And if they don’t—”
I lace our fingers together, needing the contact as much as he does.
“They will.”
The next pick is announced. Not us. My stomach dips.
Todd squeezes once and lets go, rubbing his palms on his slacks. “This is torture,” he mutters.
“You love torture.”
“Not this kind.”
I nudge his knee. “You’ll survive.”
He doesn’t answer—because the commissioner steps up again, card in hand. My heart stops. Todd stops breathing.
And then—
“With the next pick in the NHL Draft, the New Jersey Devils select—” He pauses for a beat that could kill a man. “—Logan Brooks and Todd Shaw.”
The world explodes.
Todd makes a choking sound, half laugh, half sob. I grab his arm before he can fall out of the chair. He grips my jacket like he needs me to keep him tethered to the planet.
“Logan,” he whispers, voice shaky. “Did he—did he say—”
“Yes,” I breathe. “He said both of us.”
The cameras swing our way. People are cheering. The Devils staff is waving for us to come down. It’s surreal.
Todd’s still frozen, eyes shining, lips parted in shock.
“Todd,” I murmur, touching his cheek. “We did it.”
He blinks hard, then nods—once, sharp and emotional—before surging forward and hugging me so fiercely the air leaves my lungs.
The crowd roars. We pull apart just enough to look at each other, breath mingling.
This is what it feels like to be alive.
He laughs. “We’re fucking Devils.”
“We’re fucking Devils,” I echo, grinning like an idiot.
We stand. Cameras flash. Reporters lean forward. Hands shoot out to shake ours as we make our way down the aisle.
My fingers brush his again as we walk, and without thinking, he hooks his pinky with mine for three steps—just three—but enough to steady us both.
On stage, the GM grins as he hands us our jerseys, a promise printed in red and black. Todd looks at his name stitched across the back, then at me.
“Together,” he murmurs.
“Always,” I answer.
And as the crowd erupts again, as cameras flash, as the world catches fire around us—I realize something crystal clear: This isn’t the peak.
This is the beginning.