Epilogue
Hannah
Three months after the final buzzer sounded on the regular season, Gerald Reed-Wilder becomes a hockey legend.
It is a meteoric rise for a rubber duck.
This feels important to state: Gerald is still inanimate.
He lacks a central nervous system, edge work, and the ability to contribute to the power play.
But factual limitations have never stopped Mason Monroe from creating folklore, and apparently, Northwood hockey was in desperate need of a deity.
It starts because Nate has a playoff game, and I make the tactical error of bringing Gerald to the rink in my tote bag. Ella was running late from a lab and claimed, with a level of gravity usually reserved for state funerals, that he had developed separation anxiety.
The second Mason sees Gerald’s tiny helmeted head peeking out of my bag in the family-and-friends hallway, his entire face undergoes a religious experience.
“No,” Nate says immediately.
Mason stops mid-step. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do. You were going to ask if Gerald can sit on the bench.”
Mason’s mouth falls open. Nate points at him, weary. “See? Predictive text, Mason. I’m living in your head.”
Carter leans against the wall beside us, grinning like he’s watching prestige television. “In fairness, I was also hoping Gerald could sit on the bench. We need the veteran leadership.”
“You are both banned from speaking,” Nate says, though he doesn't actually look away from me.
I pull Gerald slightly higher out of the bag. “He does have game-day experience, Nate. And technically, Northwood has won every game he’s attended.”
“That is not because of the duck,” Nate mutters, but his gaze drops to the jersey I’m wearing.
It’s the same navy and white fabric, the same heavy weight, the same name across my back: **WILDER**.
Even after three months—after I’ve worn it to every game since Ridgemont—Nate still looks at me in it like it’s a new revelation.
Like seeing his name on my skin finds some hidden wire inside him and pulls.
Nate steps closer, tugging me gently out of the team’s traffic and into a small alcove by the hallway wall. The noise of the arena pulses around us—skates on rubber mats, the muffled roar of the student section, the electric hum of playoff nerves.
His hand slides to my waist, warm and familiar. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Reed.”
“I am on your side. I’m just also on the side of statistical probability.”
His mouth curves, that slow, private smile that is reserved only for me. “Bossy.”
“Consistent.”
“I love you,” he says, his voice dropping into that rough, honest register that still makes my heart do a dangerous little flip.
“I love you too. Go win a hockey game.”
The game is brutal. Playoff hockey is just normal hockey after it’s been forced to drink lightning and choose violence. Every hit sounds like a car crash; every save is a heart attack.
Nate plays like he has all season: fast, sharp, and focused. But the "heavy" version of him—the one Coach hated—is long gone. He plays like a man who finally has his feet under him because he stopped trying to outrun his own heart.
With six minutes left in the second period, Nate finds a rebound and buries it.
The arena detonates. I’m on my feet, screaming his name, and Nate looks up.
He always finds me. He doesn't do a big showy celebration; he just smiles at me through the glass.
A private signal in a room of three thousand people.
Northwood wins 4-1. Gerald is immediately credited with the victory by Mason and a growing legion of fans on the university subreddit.
In the hallway afterward, Ethan finds me.
It’s been a slow road, but today, he smiles. It’s not the bright, easy smile from the start of the semester, but it’s real.
“He good to you, Hannah?” Ethan asks, nodding toward the locker room doors.
“Yes,” I say, and the word feels like a final piece of a puzzle locking into place. “He is.”
Ethan nods, a small, quiet acknowledgment. “Good. Take care, Hannah.”
When Nate comes out, he reads the peace on my face immediately. He takes my hand, lacing our fingers together, and pulls me into his side. No hiding. No pretending.
On the last Friday before summer break, we end up back at our diner. The red vinyl seats are the same, the neon sign still buzzes, and the coffee still tastes like it was brewed during the previous administration.
Nate reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“Our last deal had outdated terms,” he says, sliding it across the table.
I unfold it. It’s a new contract, written in his messy, sure handwriting:
**Updated Dating Deal Terms**
1. Real only. No fake dating. Ever.
2. Hannah is allowed to steal hoodies and bed space.
3. In the event of fear or spiraling, both parties must use actual words.
4. ‘I love you’ is allowed anytime. Repeated use encouraged.
I look up at him, my eyes stinging. “You made me a new deal?”
“This one’s better,” he says, taking my hand. “It’s a long-term contract.”
I sign my name beneath his. “Real,” I whisper.
“Real,” he repeats.
The fake deal was supposed to help me win a boy who made me feel safe. Instead, it gave me the boy who made me feel brave. Somewhere between the pretending and the truth, Nate Wilder became the easiest "yes" I’ve ever said.
I tuck the paper into my purse, right next to the original, and realize that for the first time in my life, the future doesn't feel like a test I have to pass. It feels like a road I’m already traveling, hand in hand with the boy who saw me before I even knew I was there.