Epilogue One
CHARLOTTE
It’s been six months since Declan proposed, and life has found its rhythm. Sophie’s laughter fills every corner of the house, the season’s back in full swing, and now that I’m on maternity leave, my days are more diaper prep than player rehab.
The wedding’s on hold until after the twins arrive—our choice, simple and right. For now, this is more than enough.
The team’s on the road this week, and Declan took leave to stay close as we wait for the twins’ arrival.
With Sophie at Maya’s for a sleepover, the house feels unusually quiet this morning.
But when I wake to a low, steady ache that won’t go away, I know everything’s about to change.
At first, I try to ignore it—roll to my side, breathe through it, count the minutes between them. But when I realize the pattern’s been steady for over an hour, I give up pretending it’s nothing.
Declan’s already in the kitchen, hair still damp from a shower. He hasn’t slept well all week, not with every day feeling like it could be the day.
He turns when he hears me. “Morning, Charlie.” His voice drops when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say carefully, bracing on the counter as another contraction rolls through. “Just…a little cramping.”
His mug freezes midair. “Cramping?”
I exhale, slow. “Okay. Maybe not just cramping.”
The mug hits the counter, forgotten. “How long?”
“An hour. Maybe a little more.”
He’s already moving—grabbing the hospital bag from near the door, muttering something about calling David, double-checking the list taped to the fridge.
“Declan,” I say, breathless but smiling, “you’re doing your worried-captain thing.”
He gives me a sheepish look. “Right. Sorry. I just—are they close together?”
“About six minutes.”
He looks at me like that means we need to leave right now.
“Hey,” I say gently, riding out the end of the contraction, “My doctor said early contractions can stretch out a bit. We’re okay.”
His jaw flexes. “Charlie… this is it. Today’s the day.”
I can’t help the small smile. “I know. Pretty wild, right?”
Before I can fully catch my breath, another wave builds—sharper, deeper, nothing like the earlier ones. This one steals the words right out of my mouth.
Declan’s there instantly, steadying me without a word. I lean into him, breathing through it, forehead pressed into his chest.
When it finally lets go, I meet his eyes.
“Okay,” I say, breathless. “Maybe…it’s time.”
He swallows hard, nods once, then grabs the hospital bag we packed last week.
“Text your dad?” he asks, helping me toward the door.
“Yeah,” I breathe, pulling out my phone between contractions. “Just so he can get a flight.”
Declan nods and unlocks his own screen. “I’ll call my parents and your dad. And David and Erin—they’ve got Sophie.”
As he helps me to the car, I can’t help but laugh between the contractions and the chaos. My calm, collected NHL captain is officially in full-blown panic mode, and somehow, it’s the most comforting thing in the world.
By the time we pull up to the hospital, the contractions are five minutes apart, and Declan’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
He jumps out before the engine’s even off, jogging around to my side like we’re about to miss a flight.
“Easy,” I laugh between breaths. “I can walk.”
He looks unconvinced. “You sure?”
“Declan, I’m a physical therapist. Trust me. I can walk.”
He chuckles nervously and steadies me anyway.
Inside, everything feels surreal: bright lights, the antiseptic smell, the steady beeps of monitors echoing down the hall. I’ve spent half my career in places like this, helping athletes recover from surgeries and injuries. But this time, I’m not the calm professional with a tablet.
I’m the patient.
And the weight of that hits all at once.
A nurse looks up from the front desk and takes one glance at me—at Declan’s arm around my waist, at the way I’m gripping his shirt as another contraction tightens—and she’s already moving.
“Hi there,” she says gently. “Let’s get you two straight back. How far apart are the contractions?”
“About five minutes,” I manage.
“Okay, good. You’re doing great. We’ve got an available room.”
She leads us down the hall, her voice calm and practiced. Declan stays close beside me, one hand steady on my back.
When we settle into the room, I perch on the edge of the bed, focusing on my breathing while the nurse secures the monitors and checks vitals. Declan’s pacing again—six steps, turn, six steps back—like he’s waiting for the puck drop.
“Declan,” I say, grabbing his wrist mid-turn, “sit.”
He blinks, startled. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. You’re vibrating.”
He opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it and lowers himself into the chair beside me. His knee’s still bouncing.
The next contraction hits harder. My breath hitches, and he’s instantly on alert—hand on mine, voice low and steady.
I’m still catching my breath when the door opens and the doctor steps in. He’s smiling like he’s been waiting for this day as long as we have. “How are we feeling, Charlotte?”
“Like it’s really happening,” I manage.
Declan squeezes my hand.
The doctor chuckles. “Looks like we’re on track. Let’s see how those little ones are doing.”
He checks the monitors, nods approvingly. “Steady heart rates, both of them. Might be a long haul, but you’re in great shape.”
Another contraction builds, stronger this time. I grip his hand, eyes closed, counting breaths. It hurts—sharp, real, consuming—but underneath it all is this strange calm, the sense that we’ve already fought our way through harder things to get here.
When it passes, Declan brushes a damp strand of hair off my cheek. “You okay?”
“Ask me again in a few hours.”
He laughs, low and rough. “Deal.”
And even with all the movement, the voices, the hum of machines around us, the world feels narrowed to just this—his hand in mine, the sound of two tiny heartbeats on the monitor, and the knowledge that the next time I look up, we’ll be outnumbered.
The hours blur after that.
Monitors beep, nurses move in and out, and Declan never once leaves my side. Every time a contraction crests, his thumb presses slow circles into my palm, his voice my anchor among the chaos.
When the doctor finally says, “It’s time,” my pulse kicks into overdrive.
Declan squeezes my hand. “You ready?”
I manage a nod. “As I’ll ever be.”
It’s strange—how everything I’ve ever learned about breathing, timing, body control—all of it vanishes the second it’s me.
There’s just this flood of instinct and trust. I focus on Declan’s voice, on the weight of his hand around mine, on the steady rhythm of his breathing that pulls me through each push.
Then, the world tilts.
A cry—high and sharp—cuts through the chaos.
My breath catches. “Is that—?”
Declan’s eyes are wet when he nods. “That’s one.”
I laugh through the tears, dizzy and trembling.
The nurse moves fast, checking vitals, calling out numbers that barely register.
“Here’s your girl,” she says with a smile. “She’s perfect.”
There’s movement near my feet, a blur of blue blankets and soft voices.
Then the doctor says, “Alright, ready for the second?”
I nod again, even though I’m shaking. Declan’s forehead presses to mine. “You’ve got this, Charlie. One more.”
One more.
I grip his hand and push, the sound leaving my chest somewhere between a sob and a scream. And then—another cry. Smaller, softer, but just as strong.
Declan lets out a sound I’ve never heard from him before—half laugh, half disbelief. “They’re here.”
When I finally look up, I see two nurses at the warmer, each holding something impossibly small, impossibly precious.
“They’re perfect,” I whisper, and my voice breaks.
Declan’s hand is trembling against mine. “You’re perfect.”
A nurse turns toward us, smiling. “Your girl is letting everyone know she’s here. Your boy’s a little quieter, but his color and breathing look great.”
She brings the first one to me, swaddled tight, pink-cheeked and squirming. The moment she rests that tiny body against my chest, the whole room goes still. Every monitor fades, every sound softens.
Declan brushes his hand over the baby’s back, voice barely a whisper. “Hey there, little one.”
Then the nurse brings the second—smaller, with a dark fuzz of hair and the same stubborn mouth I know too well.
“And here’s your son,” she murmurs.
Declan laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Looks like we’ve got another fighter.”
I look up at him, tears blurring everything. “What do you think?”
He grins, eyes shining. “Already captain material.”
The nurse smiles. “Do you have names?”
Declan squeezes my hand—that quiet, familiar smile we shared the night we finally agreed on their names.
I nod, voice thick. “Lila Grace.” I glance at the smaller one. “And Finn Declan.”
Declan goes still. His hand tightens around mine, eyes shining. “Hearing it out loud…”
I smile up at him, exhausted but overflowing with love. “I know. Me too.”
He swallows hard, then leans in and kisses me—slow, reverent, everything unsaid in one touch.
When he pulls back, both babies are in our arms. Two tiny heartbeats pressed against us, steady and new.
The next few hours pass in a haze of happy noise—nurses in and out, monitors beeping, voices soft but constant. Then the visitors arrive.
Declan’s parents. David and Erin with flowers. Maya beaming as she whispers, “I have cousins now.” My dad catching the first flight from California.
Sophie hovers near the bassinets through it all, a self-appointed bodyguard until we finally convince her to go grab food with Maya—promising the twins will be watched every second.
By late afternoon, soft light filters through the blinds, painting the walls in gold. The nurses have gone quiet, monitors dimmed, and for a few long minutes it’s just the four of us. Me, Declan, and the two tiny bodies nestled against my chest.
Declan hasn’t stopped staring. He’s sitting in the chair beside my bed, elbows on his knees, like he’s afraid to blink and miss something.
“They’re so small,” he whispers, eyes moving from one twin to the other.
“They’re perfect,” I say softly.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve lifted the Cup in front of a packed arena, and this—”
He gestures helplessly at the babies. “—this is heavier.”
I smile, brushing my thumb over Lila’s cheek. “Good thing you’ve got strong shoulders, Captain.”
A little later, the door opens again—slow and careful. Sophie’s head pokes through.
“Can I come back in?”
Her voice is barely a whisper, like she’s afraid to break whatever spell is in the room.
Declan straightens immediately. “Hey, kiddo. Come sit with them for a minute.”
She comes around to my side of the bed, moving slowly like she’s afraid to startle them.
“They’re so… tiny.”
Declan chuckles under his breath. “That’s what I said.”
Sophie looks between us, then down at the twins again. “Which one’s which again?”
“This,” I say, shifting slightly so she can see, “is Lila Grace.” I nod toward the smaller one tucked in the crook of my other arm. “And that’s Finn Declan.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You named one after Dad?”
Declan grins, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, Charlie’s idea.”
I shoot him a look, smiling. “Our idea.”
Sophie takes it all in—two tiny bundles, their slow breaths, the quiet.
Then she whispers, “They’re beautiful.”
Something in Declan’s face breaks open at that—pure pride, pure love. He leans forward and kisses the top of her head. “So are you.”
Sophie grins, shy but glowing. “Can I hold one?”
Declan’s head snaps up. “Uh—”
I laugh, tired and happy. “We’ll start with Dad practicing how to hand them off safely, and then yes, you can.”
He gives me a mock glare, then leans in close to the babies again, voice low. “You hear that, rookies? Gotta earn your big sister’s trust.”
Sophie giggles, and for a moment the whole room feels brighter—so full it almost hums.
Two tiny bundles. One family.
And in that moment, I finally understand what forever feels like.