Epilogue Maren
Maren Brooks had learned many things in six weeks.
One, preseason hockey players ate like storms with shoulders.
Two, Tyler Donovan should not be allowed to use the phrase brand extension without adult supervision.
Three, Griffin Hayes owned exactly one pair of jeans that made Maren forget what she was saying, and he knew it, which was dangerous for their long-term balance of power.
Four, the best work of her life had not happened because she stopped being afraid.
It had happened because she stopped letting fear make the terms.
The Ridgeview preseason community launch filled the Lake Briar event center on a Friday night in late August, all string lights, navy banners, youth jerseys, alumni tables, and a projection screen looping six weeks of campaign clips.
Trust the Game had worked.
More than worked.
It had grown.
Youth clinic sign-ups were up. Fan engagement was up. Alumni donations had climbed without one forced sob story or exploitative almost-kiss. The most shared clip was still Griffin saying, The bet is content. Maren is not, which he hated and Maren loved with excellent boundaries.
The second most shared clip was Tyler trying to explain accountability to a group of eight-year-olds and accidentally making himself emotional.
Tyler claimed that one was legacy work.
Cooper called it dehydration.
Maren stood near the media table with a headset around her neck, watching a group of kids tape promise cards onto the traveling Trust Wall. The wall was bigger now. Cleaner. Designed by an actual print vendor instead of Beckett with markers and dramatic feelings.
Still, Maren missed the crooked first version.
Maybe because she had been crooked then too.
Not broken.
Just mid-build.
Ava appeared with two lemonades. “You are doing the thing.”
Maren accepted one. “Breathing?”
“Staring at your own success like it might bite you.”
“It has teeth.”
“It has contracts.”
“Same thing.”
Ava laughed and leaned into Maren’s side.
Across the room, Nate was helping a nervous little boy meet three players without being swallowed by their combined height.
Griffin stood near the rink display with Coach Doyle, listening to a parent ask about winter clinics.
He wore dark jeans, a white T-shirt, and the calm focus of a man who could still silence Tyler with one look from thirty feet away.
Then he glanced at Maren.
His face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
It always did now.
Ava saw it and sighed. “Disgusting.”
Maren smiled into her lemonade. “You and Nate are worse.”
“Yes, but we are established. You two are still in the unbearable glow phase.”
“I am a professional.”
“You made heart eyes near a step-and-repeat.”
“That was strategic romance.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is now. I have metrics.”
Ava laughed and hugged her with one arm. “I am really proud of you.”
The words landed softly.
Still big.
Maren leaned into the hug for one second longer than usual.
“Thank you.”
No joke.
No deflection.
Growth was horrible and useful.
Her mother arrived twenty minutes later with Paige.
Maren had known they were coming. She had invited them herself, which Ava called mature and Maren called evidence of temporary insanity.
Paige looked around the event center, taking in the packed tables, the camera crew, the player stations, the Trust Wall, the sponsor banners, and Maren’s name on the campaign board.
Maren waited.
Old instincts lined up.
Smile first.
Laugh first.
Make it easy.
She did not move.
Paige finally looked at her. “This is impressive.”
Not warm.
Not effusive.
Still true.
Maren smiled. “Thank you.”
Her mother touched the edge of the campaign board. “You did all this?”
“I led it,” Maren said. “A lot of people helped.”
Her mother’s eyes moved across the photos, the videos, the crowd.
Then back to Maren.
“I did not understand what your work was,” she said quietly.
Maren’s chest tightened.
“That is okay.”
“No,” her mother said. “It is not. But I would like to.”
Maren had prepared herself for a lot of things.
Not that.
Paige looked mildly uncomfortable, which helped.
Maren handed her mother one of the printed campaign summaries. “Start here.”
Her mother took it like it mattered.
Maybe that was enough for tonight.
Maybe enough was allowed to arrive in pieces.
A warm hand touched Maren’s lower back.
She knew him before she turned.
Griffin stood beside her with two bottles of water and the expression of a man who had noticed every emotion in the last three minutes and chosen not to interrupt until she looked ready.
Beside.
Always better than in front.
“Mrs. Brooks,” he said politely. “Paige.”
Paige’s gaze flicked between them. “Griffin.”
Maren’s mother smiled. “You are the one from the video.”
Griffin’s ears went slightly red.
Maren treasured it immediately.
“There were several videos,” he said.
“The one where you said Maren was not content.”
Maren looked down because if she looked at Griffin, she would be useless.
Her mother continued, “That was good.”
Griffin’s hand settled more firmly at Maren’s back.
“She is good,” he said.
Maren breathed through the ridiculous fullness in her chest.
Across the room, Tyler shouted, “I need everyone to know I am boyfriend material!”
The entire event seemed to pause.
A woman in a red staff lanyard near the registration table looked him up and down with devastating calm.
“Prove it,” she said.
Tyler’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Cooper turned slowly toward him, eyes bright with rare joy. “Oh, this will be terrible for you.”
Maren looked at Griffin.
Griffin looked at Maren.
Ava appeared from nowhere, whispering, “Do not get involved.”
Maren lifted her phone.
Griffin gently lowered it.
“Boundaries,” he said.
“That could be the next campaign.”
“That could be Tyler’s problem.”
“Same thing, potentially.”
He smiled.
The real one.
Still rare enough to feel like a secret, even in a crowded room.
Later, after the speeches, after Carter announced the campaign extension, after Denise cried for exactly four seconds and then blamed allergies, after Tyler tried and failed to explain why fake boyfriend material was a leadership trait, Griffin found Maren outside by the dark windows overlooking the lake.
The event glowed behind them.
The water was black and silver beyond the glass.
Maren leaned against him, tired in every good way.
“You know,” she said, “for a bad idea, this turned out pretty well.”
Griffin wrapped his arms around her from behind. “It had boundaries.”
“And courage.”
“And hydration.”
She laughed.
He kissed the side of her head.
For a while, they watched the reflection of the room in the glass. The team moving behind them. Their friends laughing. The Trust Wall crowded with promises. Maren’s name on the screen, not small, not cute, not accidental.
Earned.
Griffin’s hand found hers.
Maren linked their fingers.
No camera.
No poll.
No audience.
Just the quiet after the best kind of risk.
The one you chose.
The one that chose you back.