Bonus Epilogue
Cyaire
The first time I ever watched a Seattle Vipers game, I was eight years old and sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet while my father shouted at the television as if the players could hear him through the screen. Most dads yelled at football, ours yelled at hockey.
Julian and I used to roll our eyes about it, whispering commentary to each other while Dad dissected every power play and defensive shift like he was part of the coaching staff.
We’d mimic his gestures behind his back, the way he leaned forward when the Vipers were on a power play, how his hands moved as if he could guide the puck himself through sheer force of will.
Julian was better at the impressions, capturing Dad’s intensity so perfectly, that I’d laugh until my sides ached.
Tonight, I’m sitting in a private box at Climate Pledge Arena, watching those same Vipers skate across the ice, and my father is leaning forward in his seat with that same intensity etched across his face.
The box is sleek and modern, all glass and polished surfaces, with catered food that neither of us has touched placed on elegant trays.
Some things, it seems, don’t change, even when the setting transforms completely.
A lot of other things have. Malik and Julian sit in front of us, fingers threaded together without hesitation, wedding bands catching the arena lights whenever they move.
The rings are simple platinum bands, nothing flashy, but they catch my eye every time one of them gestures or reaches for their drink.
They look settled in a way that still surprises me sometimes, like they’ve found a rhythm that fits them both perfectly.
After everything that led them to this moment, the years of separation, the betrayal, the slow rebuilding of trust, they are steady and certain in their love for each other.
Dad glances at them more than he probably realizes, a soft, hesitant smile flickering across his face whenever Malik leans into Julian’s space or when Julian laughs at something only the two of them can hear.
Our parents hadn’t come to their wedding.
It had been small and private, held in the hills outside the city with only a select few people in attendance.
Mom said she “wasn’t ready.” Dad said nothing at all.
He’s here tonight though, sitting in this expensive box, watching hockey with his sons and his son’s husband, cheering alongside us when the Vipers make a particularly impressive play.
It’s a huge deal and it counts for something. Progress measured in small gestures, in showing up when it matters.
The game itself is fast and brutal, skates carve sharp white lines into the ice while bodies slam against plexiglass with sounds that reverberate through the arena.
Anaheim keeps it close, their players cycling through aggressive forechecks and defensive stands that make every possession feel earned.
Dad narrates the plays under his breath the way he always has, his voice carrying that familiar mix of expertise and passion.
“That’s Sebastian Bergeron in net tonight,” he says, nodding toward the far end of the rink where the goalie crouches in his distinctive stance.
“Shaw’s backup for this game, though calling him a backup doesn’t do him justice.
The coaches rotate between the two of them, depending on the matchups and game situations.
It’s brilliant strategy, considering they’re both elite-level talent. ”
Bergeron. The name sparks recognition instantly. Everyone knows his name now, though for reasons that extend far beyond hockey.
The goalie who turned out to be B. Ardent, the anonymous painter whose identity rocked both the art world and the NHL when it was revealed.
Married to Derrick Shaw, the other Vipers goalie, in a love story that dominated headlines for months.
Two netminders. One team. One marriage. A headline no one saw coming, least of all the fans who had been following B. Ardent’s mysterious artwork for years.
Dad clears his throat, his voice carrying a weight that suggests he’s thinking about more than just hockey statistics.
“They’re good men. Both of them. What they’ve built together, what they’ve had to navigate, it takes courage.
” He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to.
The meaning sits there between us, quiet and heavy, an acknowledgment of things he’s still learning to understand and accept.
The Vipers score late in the third period, a beautiful wrist shot that finds the top corner with surgical precision, and the arena erupts in a wall of sound that seems to shake the glass around our box.
Dad is on his feet instantly, fists raised, his careful composure forgotten in the moment of pure celebration.
Malik laughs, clapping Julian on the back with enough force to make him stumble forward slightly.
For a moment, it feels like we’re back in that old living room, just louder and more expensive, the years collapsing into familiar patterns of shared excitement.
When the final buzzer sounds and Seattle takes the win, we’re escorted downstairs through a controlled hallway beneath the stands that feels like stepping behind the curtain of a massive production.
The concrete walls hum with leftover energy from the ice above, vibrating with the echoes of twenty thousand people celebrating.
The air smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and cold steel, mixed with something indefinable that might just be adrenaline made physical.
Players begin filing past in waves, their movements still carrying the intensity of the game even in victory.
Helmets still strapped on, visors fogged with condensation.
Gloves dangling from tired hands, the leather dark with sweat.
Pads thick beneath their jerseys, making them look larger than life even in exhaustion, like warriors returning from some ancient battlefield.
Their voices carry in the hallway, a mix of celebration and the kind of casual profanity that comes with physical exertion and relief.
Dad leans closer to Julian and Malik, his voice pitched just loud enough for all of us to hear over the commotion. His excitement is infectious, like a kid getting to meet his heroes for the first time.
“There’s Torrence Bailey,” he says, pointing to a massive man whose presence seems to command respect even from his teammates. “He’s the captain. Absolute powerhouse on the ice, but from what I’ve read, he’s incredibly thoughtful off it. The kind of leader who actually leads.”
“Ridley Masters, co-captain,” he continues as another player passes, this one smaller but moving with the kind of confidence that speaks to years of earned authority. “Married to Brea Brookes. Julian, you know her, don’t you? She sings that song your brother likes.”
He continues with the name-dropping and life stories, jersey numbers and statistics flowing off his tongue with the fluency of someone who has spent decades memorizing these details.
It’s endearing in a way I hadn’t expected, watching my father geek out over these athletes like he’s meeting celebrities.
Then he straightens slightly, his attention caught by movement near the end of the line.
“There’s number seventeen,” he says, his voice carrying a note of particular approval.
“Jamie Maxwell. Quiet forward, doesn’t get the flashy headlines, but he’s been one of their best trades in recent years, well, besides Groves, but that was a different kind of acquisition altogether.
Maxwell gets the job done without needing the spotlight. ”
Jamie Maxwell. The name settles somewhere in my mind without meaning. Just another player my father is cataloguing with quiet admiration. It doesn’t connect to anything yet, doesn’t stir anything deeper than idle curiosity.
Number seventeen steps out from behind two defensemen, and I almost miss him because he isn’t loud about his presence.
He isn’t slapping backs or shouting over teammates, isn’t demanding attention the way some athletes do.
He moves with the group like he belongs there completely, helmet still secured, gloves hanging loosely from one hand, as if blending in is instinct rather than strategy.
Then he reaches up and removes his helmet with practiced efficiency, and the world shifts on its axis.
Curly short black hair, dark and damp with sweat, flattened against his skull from the confines of protective gear.
A faint scar near his left eyebrow that I remember tracing with my fingertip in the darkness of a hotel room.
The same steady eyes I once watched across a hotel bar in Manhattan while I was pretending my life wasn’t about to implode, eyes that had seemed to see through every careful lie I was telling myself.
Jamie.
Jamie Maxwell.
He’s a professional hockey player? Of all the professions I had imagined he might have during the countless late-night moments when my mind drifted back to that single night, hockey player had never once crossed my mind.
I had pictured him as maybe a teacher, or someone in finance, or perhaps working in construction.
Something that would explain the calluses on his hands and the way he carried himself with quiet confidence.
Three years ago, I met him at a hotel bar in New York while my mother was orchestrating a series of tours through medical schools she had carefully selected for my future.
I had already decided, with a certainty that terrified me, that I wasn’t going to follow through with any of it.
I just hadn’t yet figured out how to tell my parents that I was walking away from the future they had so meticulously planned and invested in, the future that represented everything they believed about success and security and the right way to build a life.