Bonus Epilogue #2
He never told me what he did for a living, and I never asked. There had been something about that anonymity that felt precious, like we were both taking shelter from our real lives for a few stolen hours.
We didn’t exchange names. We didn’t exchange anything except honesty and skin and a night that felt unexpectedly uncomplicated in the middle of the chaos that had become my existence.
There had been something clean about it, something pure in its simplicity.
Two people finding each other in a moment when everything else felt impossibly tangled.
I left before sunrise without looking back, even though every instinct screamed at me to stay, to leave him a note, to give him some way to find me if he wanted to.
Something to remember me by, some acknowledgment that what had happened between us mattered more than a random encounter between strangers.
I didn’t want to complicate my life any further than I already had, so I left no trace of myself behind.
I didn’t want to drag anyone else into the fallout of the decision I was about to make, the disappointment I was about to cause, the bridges I was about to burn.
It felt cleaner to walk away, to let it exist as a perfect moment untouched by the mess of real life.
A chance encounter, a one-night stand with no strings attached, but one that had somehow managed to brand itself onto my memory in the midnight hours of wishing I had been brave enough to at least ask his name.
Now he stands twenty feet away in full Vipers gear, and he’s looking directly at me with the same intensity I remember from that hotel bar.
There is no confusion in his expression, no moment of uncertainty where he tries to place my face.
Recognition moves across his features slowly, deliberately, like he’s adjusting to new information rather than reacting to surprise.
He knows exactly who I am, and I can see him processing the collision between memory and present reality.
Of course, he knows who I am now, the billboards, the premieres, the interviews, the carefully orchestrated publicity.
It would be impossible not to recognize me at this point.
I don’t know how long we hold each other’s gaze, only that it feels longer than it should, like the hallway has gone quiet around us even though I can hear the continued chatter of players and staff.
There’s something in his expression that goes beyond simple recognition, a question, maybe, or an acknowledgment of something unfinished.
A teammate claps him on the shoulder with casual familiarity, pulling his attention back to the corridor and the rhythm of post-game routine.
He shifts with the group, sliding seamlessly back into the easy camaraderie that speaks to years of shared purpose.
On the ice, I imagine he’s ruthless, focused, the kind of player who makes things happen without fanfare.
Down here, he seems almost reluctant to take up space, content to let others command attention while he simply exists in their orbit.
If Dad hadn’t spoken his full name with such obvious admiration, I might have missed him entirely among the sea of similar jerseys and post-game exhaustion.
Jamie disappears into the locker room with the rest of the team, absorbed back into their world of ice and speed and shared victory, and I stare after him, stunned by the impossibility of this moment.
Dad is still talking excitedly about power plays and defensive strategies, his voice animated with the kind of passion he usually reserves for holiday dinners and family achievements.
Malik is teasing Julian about something, kissing his cheek with the casual affection of someone who no longer worries about cameras or public perception, not giving the photographers who follow them everywhere a second glance.
Life continues around me as if something seismic didn’t just happen inside my chest, as if the ground beneath my feet hadn’t shifted in some fundamental way.
Over the last two years, my own life has moved at a speed I barely recognize.
One film turned into three, and suddenly there was talk of a franchise that seemed to take on a life of its own.
Red carpets replaced casting calls, designer suits replaced audition outfits, and cameras followed me whether I wanted them to or not, documenting every public moment for consumption.
Roland and I burned bright and fast and ended exactly the way bright things often do, spectacularly, publicly, with enough drama to fuel entertainment blogs for months.
After that, there were others. A series of relationships that looked good on paper and in photographs but never quite managed to find solid ground beneath the surface glamour.
None of them lasted longer than a few months.
The actors were too focused on their own careers, the civilians too overwhelmed by the constant attention, and everyone seemed to want either too much or too little from me.
Eventually, I convinced myself that dating was more trouble than it was worth, that the cost of vulnerability in the public eye was too high to justify the potential rewards.
I told myself I was done with men and women. Done with entanglements. Done with risking the kind of vulnerability that leaves bruises long after the headlines fade and the photographers move on to other subjects.
The decision felt reasonable, safe, like the kind of mature choice that adults make when they recognize patterns that no longer serve them.
After a while, you have to tell yourself enough is enough.
It won’t hurt me to be alone for a while, to focus on work and family and the things I can actually control.
Standing in this hallway tonight, staring at Jamie Maxwell in a Seattle Vipers jersey, watching him disappear into a world I never imagined he inhabited, I realized something I hadn’t anticipated. I wasn’t finished.
I had simply walked away before the story had a chance to begin, before we could discover what might have grown from that single night of honesty and connection.
Judging by the way he looked at me before disappearing in the locker room, with recognition, yes, but also with something deeper, something that suggested our encounter had left its mark on him too. I don’t think he considers it finished either.
Some encounters fade into memory, becoming nothing more than pleasant stories you tell yourself when you need reminding that good moments exist. Others wait, patient and persistent, biding their time until the universe provides the perfect opportunity for continuation.
This one, I suspect, has been waiting. Three long years.
-THE END-