Epilogue
Eight Months Later
The Thinker was buzzing with activity outside our somber little bubble.
We joined the tables for all the Arctic Titans and their plus-ones.
Andrei sat next to me, comfortable under the arm I draped over his shoulders.
It would soon be a year since the first stories appeared on a fan fiction website, before the first Griffdrei edits began trending.
Now, we sat in a crowded bar with our team, celebrating Phoenix’s departure and mourning it at the same time.
Jaxon leaned into Phoenix’s side, whispering something that made our captain smile in that private way reserved for moments no one else was meant to see.
They’d be heading to Chicago together next week.
Phoenix had signed with the Blackhawks, a dream realized earlier than any of us had expected.
The scouts had been circling since midseason, and Phoenix’s performance in the playoffs had sealed it.
Now, he was turning pro at barely twenty-two, leaving us behind but moving toward everything he’d worked for.
“Speech,” Mason called out, banging his fist on the table with cheerful aggression. “Come on, Captain. Give us something to cry about.”
Phoenix rolled his eyes but stood anyway, Jaxon’s hand sliding away from his reluctantly. The bar quieted in patches, conversation dying down row by row until all attention focused on the man who’d led us through the strangest season any of us would probably ever experience.
“I’m not good at this,” Phoenix started, which earned him a few encouraging shouts.
He smiled, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. I’ve been your captain for two years, and honestly, I didn’t think I’d make it through the first month.
But you all showed up for each other when it got tough. Not just on the ice, but off it, too.”
He paused, gaze sweeping across familiar faces. Toby sat between Damon and Mason. Our backup goalie nursed a beer next to his girlfriend, while Coach Neilsen lingered near the bar, pretending he wasn’t listening intently to every word.
“This year tested us,” Phoenix continued. “The cameras, the attention, the pressure to be characters instead of people. Some of you handled it better than others.” His eyes landed on me with knowing amusement. “But we made it through together. That’s what matters.”
Andrei’s fingers found mine under the table, squeezing gently. I squeezed back, remembering those first weeks of filming, the weight of manufactured personas, the slow unraveling that had eventually led to something real.
“I’m proud of this team,” Phoenix said, voice roughening slightly. “Not because we won games, though we did plenty of that. I’m proud because when it counted, you chose honesty over image. You chose each other over easy answers.” He raised his glass. “To the Arctic Titans. May you never lose that.”
We raised our drinks in response, a chorus of agreement and affection filling the space. Phoenix sat down to applause and back-slapping, Jaxon immediately pulling him close again.
“Your turn,” Andrei murmured near my ear.
“My turn for what?”
“To say something profound and touching.”
I laughed, pressing my lips to his temple. “I’m not the captain. I don’t have to be profound.”
“You’re you,” he said simply. “That’s profound enough.”
The evening continued in waves of conversation and laughter.
Toby challenged Mason to arm wrestling, which devolved into chaos when Damon declared himself referee and started making up rules.
Someone ordered another round of drinks.
Music from the jukebox provided a soundtrack to goodbyes that felt far too heartbreaking to live through the night.
I watched Phoenix lean back in his chair, content in a way I’d rarely seen him. The weight he’d carried for two years, the responsibility of being both captain and representation, had finally eased. He’d done his job. Now, he got to move forward into whatever came next.
“Think we’ll be okay without him?” I asked Andrei.
“We’ll be fine,” Andrei said. “Phoenix built something that doesn’t disappear just because he’s leaving.”
He was right. The team Phoenix inherited had already been special, built on foundations laid by players who’d come before us. We were just continuing that legacy, adding our own strange chapter to the story.
My phone buzzed with a notification. Another Instagram mention, probably.
The attention hadn’t disappeared after that night at the rink.
If anything, it had intensified for a while, reaching levels that had required actual security at our games.
But eight months later, the fever had cooled to something more manageable.
We were still recognized, still stopped for photos occasionally, but the frenzy had passed.
Blades of Northwood had wrapped its second season last month. They’d offered us contracts for a third, which the team had collectively declined. We’d given them enough. It was time to reclaim some privacy, some normalcy, even if normal would always be slightly out of reach now.
“Remember when I thought this would ruin everything?” Andrei asked, following my gaze around the bar.
“To be honest, I was terrified, too,” I admitted. “Thought I’d lose you, lose the team, lose myself in all of it.”
“But you didn’t. You saved the day.” Andrei’s bright eyes turned to me, and love welled in them, unfiltered, out in the open.
“I found the one thing that matters.” I turned to look at him properly. The dim lighting softened his features. “You matter. Everything else is just noise.”
He smiled that complete smile that transformed his entire face. “You’ve gotten philosophical in your old age.”
“I’m twenty-one. Hardly old.”
“Ancient,” he teased. “Practically retirement age for a hockey player.”
I pinched his side, making him squirm. Across the table, Mason made exaggerated gagging noises. “Get a room,” he said.
“We have a room,” I replied. “We share it, actually. Have for years now.”
“Yeah, and those of us in neighboring rooms are very aware of that fact,” Damon added dryly, which earned him a round of laughter and my middle finger.
Of all our teammates, Damon had been the only one to see through our attempts at keeping it secret.
He’d practically come out as bi in one interview to take the heat off of us.
We’d spoken at length about it later and discovered that we had more than a teammate in this big guy. We had a friend. A brother.
The conversation shifted to next season’s prospects, to late-summer training plans, to who would take over as captain now that Phoenix was leaving.
Names were thrown around. Arguments were made.
Someone suggested rock-paper-scissors, which Mason took seriously until Toby pointed out he was still just a sophomore.
I half listened, content to observe. This was my team, my chosen family, the group of people who’d seen me at my worst, took my measure, and decided I was worth keeping anyway.
They’d stood around me on the ice that night, protecting something fragile and new.
They’d given us space to be honest when honesty felt impossible.
Andrei’s head rested against my shoulder now, his body warm and solid beside me. We’d stopped hiding months ago, stopped worrying about who was watching or what they thought. It had taken that grand gesture, that terrifying leap, but we’d landed somewhere better than I’d imagined possible.
Right after that, we went home for a winter break, and our families welcomed us with open arms. It wasn’t what they’d imagined the future would look like when we were peewees and inseparable, but they had never tried to push us into the places our shapes didn’t fit.
We were loved. We were alive. What more was there to ask for?
“You happy?” I asked him quietly.
He turned his head to look up at me. “Yeah. I am.”
“Good.”
“You?”
I thought about it honestly. The past year had been chaos and cameras, pressure and performance, fear and revelation. It had stripped us down and built us back up. It had tested every assumption I’d ever made about myself.
But sitting here with Andrei’s weight against me, surrounded by teammates who’d become brothers, celebrating someone who’d taught us all what leadership looked like, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m happy, too. I’ve been happy every day since the day I met you, Andrei.”
“Best friends forever,” Andrei said.
“Forever and ever.”
Phoenix caught my eye across the table and raised his glass slightly, a private acknowledgment between us.
We’d both learned something this year about the cost of honesty and the value of being seen.
He’d walked that path in the footsteps of giants, and he, too, made it easier for the rest of us.
Now, he was moving on to new challenges, new cities, new chapters.
But tonight was for remembering. For appreciating what we’d built together in this strange, wonderful, complicated year.
Jaxon leaned over to whisper something to Andrei, who laughed and nodded. Phoenix reached across to steal a fry from Mason’s plate. Toby launched into a story about summer escapades that involved his family’s lake house. The evening flowed around us, ordinary and extraordinary at once.
I pulled Andrei closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He hummed contentedly, fingers tracing absent patterns on my thigh under the table.
“I love you, Sokolov,” I said.
“I love you, too, Shaw,” he replied.
This was it. This was everything. Not the fame or the attention or the viral moments that had defined our fall. Just this quiet certainty that I’d found something worth keeping, someone worth spending my life with. And the knowledge that I’d found that guy in my best friend.
The Thinker buzzed on around us, full of life and noise and the bittersweet ache of endings that promised new beginnings. We’d make it through. We always did. Together.
If you enjoyed Tempting the Teammate, don’t forget to leave a review. Also, be sure to stick with Arctic Titans, as the story continues in Zero Pucks Given.