EPILOGUE - Home （Eden）
Nate’s Fire Island kitchen is a loud, fragrant storm of movement—and he’s in his element.
It’s Labor Day weekend, the last Saturday before training camp. The annual pre-season dinner has taken over both houses. Between his place and Dmitri’s down the path, we’ve got eight bedrooms, two grills, one shared playlist, and enough egos to power a playoff series.
Inside, Omar Deep’s “Moscow” pulses through the speakers. Nate, Dmitri, and Sophie move in time—hips loose, shoulders bouncing as they chop, toss, and taste. Seared peppers and marinated shrimp fill the air, a mix of end-of-summer joy and pre-season focus.
Beach-dark and barefoot, Nate wears a Defenders tee and an apron that reads “Goalie by Day, Gourmet by Night.” He’s engineering a Calabrian-Creole menu layered with Russian twists, commanding the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and a chef’s knife in the other.
Sophie’s prep has the calm efficiency she’s learned in med-school labs: zucchini and eggplant laid out in clean, even rows. Dmitri is razor-focused at the far counter, shaving cucumbers and radishes for a sour cream salad, sleeves rolled and jaw set.
“Ease up on the capers,” Nate barks, tilting his head toward Sophie’s skillet. “You’re drowning it.”
She doesn’t flinch. “It’s called seasoning. You’d know if you ever used any.”
“Don’t make me regret letting you in my kitchen, Novak.”
Dmitri tosses a handful of chopped dill into his bowl. “Too late to back out now, Russo.”
“Should’ve left you in the penalty box,” Nate mutters, reaching for a lemon. “But no. I said, ‘Let’s have fun. Let’s cook together.’”
Despite the bickering, they keep moving. Dmitri stirs, Nate flips, Sophie reaches for the olive oil in clean, practiced sync.
Out on the deck, Liam and Finn man the grill, mid-argument about shrimp timing.
“Three more minutes,” Finn says, tongs hovering.
“They’re already cooked through,” Liam replies, reaching to flip.
Rowan ducks past them with pitchers of iced tea, expertly avoiding a collision as Wesley and Adam come crashing through the sliding door. Kieran strolls in last, barefoot, cocky, deliberately empty-handed. He pauses in the doorway, grinning at the chaos.
“Smells dangerous in here,” he says, eyes sweeping the room.
Nate doesn’t look up. “Grab a knife or get out. You’re not even a rookie, and already not pulling your weight.”
“I’m here for moral support.”
“You’re here because your siblings guilt-tripped us into feeding you,” Finn calls from the grill.
“Baby brother privilege,” Liam adds, flipping a shrimp. “You might be bigger than you were at sixteen, but you’re still the runt of this litter.”
“Keep talking,” Kieran shoots back, sauntering toward the fridge. “I’ll skate all your asses into the ground next week. And next year, once I officially join the team.”
Adam snorts. “You think you’re ready for captain’s skates?”
“They’re gonna break you,” Wesley warns, stepping in behind him. “We’ve already got bets on how many drills it’ll take until you cry.”
Kieran grabs a water, unfazed. “Then you better put money on me. I’m not the one with a dad bod.”
Wesley glares. “It’s bulk season.”
“It’s denial season,” Kieran fires back.
Dmitri glances up from the counter. “You know there’s no special treatment here, right? No mercy for baby brothers.”
Kieran keeps grinning. He’s not on our roster yet, but he will be.
He’s Liam and Erin’s kid brother, headed into his final year at BU, already drafted by the Defenders with an entry-level deal waiting after graduation.
And no, that wasn’t nepotism. Scouts have been circling him for two seasons; the kid earned it.
He’ll come in as a bottom-six forward—third or fourth line to start—unless he torches camp.
Where he lands will stick after preseason.
The talent’s real. The swagger says he knows it.
Dinner is served on the porch. Three long tables stretch across the wooden deck, pushed together and dressed in mismatched cloths that flutter with the warm Fire Island breeze.
Candles flicker in shallow jars. Wine glasses crowd the center, catching the last of the light.
Grilled shrimp glazed with Calabrian chili is piled high beside bowls of spicy corn, roasted eggplant, and cucumber-radish salad with fresh dill.
The scent of peaches warming on the edge of the grill drifts through the air, sweet and sharp.
Everyone’s here. Sun-flushed, relaxed, passing plates down the table.
A couple of glasses linger, but most of the players stick to water and seltzer with the season looming.
Rowan slips off a shoe under the table and starts a minor war with Joy.
Dmitri tops off the water jugs. Sophie nicks one of Finn’s chicken thighs and blames it on her sister.
I lean into Nate’s side, my voice pitched low. “This is way more elaborate than Antonio ever pulled off.”
Nate chuckles, setting down his fork. “Just make sure you never tell him that. As much as my father adores you, it would be the end of that.”
“He’d be proud,” I laugh.
Across the table, I catch Leo eyeing down Liz. I lean over and hiss under my breath, “Don’t even think about it.”
He barely turns his head. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed to look,” he murmurs, all innocence.
“Not like that.”
“I’m literally eating corn and minding my business.”
“You’re eye-fucking my friend while you’re clutching a corn cob,” I snap.
Liz looks up and catches him. She doesn’t flinch. One brow lifts; her once-over is slow and unimpressed.
“Try chewing with your mouth closed, Romeo,” she says, and goes back to her chicken skewer.
Leo’s breath hitches. There’s no question where his mind went. Judging by Liz’s grin, she knows it.
“Off limits is my kryptonite,” he murmurs. I groan. Nate just laughs and reaches for the peaches.
After dessert, we all drift toward the beach. The sand’s still warm underfoot. The sky has just a few stars showing. Everyone breaks into little clusters.
Finn hoists Jessica onto his back, her laugh echoing across the dunes. Rowan bolts toward the water, shrieking something unintelligible. Joy tears after her, then Liz—barefoot, wild, her short summer dress fluttering as she dives straight in.
Three seconds later, they’re soaked, screaming, dancing in the surf.
Kieran slows beside us. “Did they just stage a wet T-shirt contest for no reason?”
Wesley whistles. “Yup.”
Out in the waves, Liz spins, her dress plastered to her skin, curls slick against her shoulders, grinning madly.
Leo’s arms are crossed, jaw tight, chest rising just a little too fast. Nate leans in. “That woman’s doing absolutely nothing to help your self-control.”
“She’s doing it on purpose. Don’t you think?”
Nate shrugs, and I nudge him with my elbow. He squeezes my hand, smile lazy, eyes on the waves.
Up ahead, Erin laces her fingers through Dmitri’s. Liam and Sophie walk in step, quiet and close.
The tide rolls in. The stars blink awake. And somewhere between the laughter and the surf, another summer winds down.
We walk in silence for a minute, our hands brushing, then clasping.
“I like this,” I say.
“What? Hosting?”
“This. All of it. Us.”
He smiles. “Me too.”
From behind us, Kieran’s voice cuts through the surf. “Nice setup, Russo,” he taunts. “But we all know Dmitri’s gym is still the gold standard.”
“Damn right it is,” Dmitri calls back, grinning.
“Hey!” Nate shouts. “Mine has beach views and cold brew on tap.”
“Tomorrow. Six a.m.,” Kieran challenges. “We hit the sand. You boomers can sweat out the grilled corn and Creole shrimp.”
“I’ll spar you,” Leo says without looking over. “Could use someone to burn off this tension.”
Kieran laughs. “Bring it, boxer boy.”
Finn cuts in. “Get the rookie to sign a waiver first, Leo.”
Their chirping fades as we walk along the beach, the tide softening the edges.
It’s easy now. It’s right.
I lean into Nate, his arm settling around me. Eyes closed for a heartbeat.
The sea. The breeze. The warm, beautiful chaos of people who feel like home.
THE END
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