Epilogue
Mac
The familiar sound of skates carving into fresh ice sends electricity through my veins as I push off from the boards, muscles remembering rhythms I thought I'd lost forever.
September morning practice at the Howlers' facility in Boston feels like coming home after a year-long exile, even though part of my heart permanently resides two hours south in a small Rhode Island town that smells like ocean salt and old books.
"Sullivan!" Coach’s voice booms across the rink. "Stop daydreaming and show me you remember how to play hockey!"
The chirps from my teammates start immediately.
"Aw, Mac's thinking about his romance novel princess," Tommy Castellano calls out, his Boston accent thick with laughter as he glides past me backward, showing off like the cocky rookie he is.
"Shut it, Reeves," I fire back, but I'm grinning as I steal the puck from between his skates and take off down the ice. "Some of us have actual relationships instead of whatever you call sliding into Instagram DMs."
"Brutal," Jake says, appearing at my left shoulder with the kind of seamless timing that made us such effective linemates before my accident. "Kid walked right into that one."
I flip the puck to Jake and watch him bury it top shelf, his wrist shot as deadly as ever. The familiar satisfaction of a perfect play fills my chest. This connection, this wordless understanding between teammates, is something I didn't realize how much I'd missed until right now.
"Looking good out there, boys," our captain, Connor Hayes, skates over after the drill ends, tapping his stick against mine in approval. "Mac, you sure you don't need more time? That shoulder holding up okay?"
I roll my shoulder experimentally, feeling the dull ache that's become my constant companion, but nothing like the screaming pain from a year ago. "Better every day. Physical therapy's a bitch, but it's working."
"Good." Hayes’s expression turns serious, the way it does when he's about to say something meaningful. "We missed you, man. Team wasn't the same without you."
Something tight in my chest loosens at his words. The guilt that's been eating at me since last July—knowing my absence cost us a playoff spot, knowing twenty guys had to watch their Stanley Cup dreams die because I couldn't keep my car on the road—starts to ease just a fraction.
"Thanks, Cap," I manage, grateful when he just nods and skates away, understanding without needing more words.
Jake lingers as the rest of the team heads toward the locker room, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
At twenty-six, he's two years younger than me but carries himself with the quiet intensity that makes him one of the best defensemen in the league.
His dark hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there's something restless in his green eyes that I recognize from my own mirror last year.
"You doing okay?" I ask, bumping his shoulder as we coast toward the bench. "You seem off lately."
He shrugs, the movement too casual to be genuine. "Just tired. Long summer."
"Bullshit." I stop skating and face him directly. "We've been friends for eight years. I know when you're spiraling. What's going on?"
For a moment, Jake's composure cracks, and I catch a glimpse of something raw and worried in his expression. Then he's back to his usual controlled self, jaw tight with whatever he's not telling me.
"There's some stuff happening," he says finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Legal stuff. My agent's handling it, but..."
"What kind of legal stuff?"
Jake glances around the empty rink, making sure we're alone before answering. "Someone's claiming I bet on games. Complete bullshit, but the league's investigating. Could be looking at suspension if they decide there's enough evidence."
Ice-cold dread fills my stomach. Gambling accusations are career killers in professional sports. Even if they're false, the stain follows you forever.
"Jesus, Jake. How can I help?"
He shakes his head, skating backward as he talks.
"Nothing anyone can do except wait. My lawyer says it'll blow over once they realize there's no actual proof, but in the meantime.
.." He trails off, but I can fill in the blanks.
In the meantime, his reputation takes a beating, and every sports reporter in the country starts digging into his private life, looking for dirt.
"You need to get ahead of this story," I tell him, thinking about everything I learned during my own public relations nightmare. "Control the narrative before it controls you."
"Yeah, that's what my publicist keeps saying. Something about finding a media expert who understands hockey culture." Jake's laugh is bitter. "Apparently, I need someone who can make me look like a sympathetic figure instead of a degenerate gambler."
A thought strikes me so suddenly I almost lose my balance on the ice. "I might know someone."
"Yeah?"
"Maya Gatlin. She used to be a sports journalist in Boston before she moved to Millbrook Falls.
Covered sports for years, knows the industry inside and out.
" I can practically see the wheels turning in Jake's head as I talk.
"She's brilliant with social media, great at spinning stories.
Hell, she almost knocked my publicist out of a job.
And she's completely trustworthy—helped Delaney turn my romance disaster into a love story that made national news. "
Jake's eyebrows raise with interest. "Maya Gatlin... why does that name sound familiar?"
"She used to write for the Globe's sports section.
Did some really good investigative pieces about player safety and contract disputes.
" I pause, remembering something Delaney mentioned.
"She also has zero patience for hockey players who think they're God's gift to women, so she'd definitely keep you in line. "
"Sounds terrifying," Jake says, but he's smiling for the first time all morning. "Think she'd be interested in helping someone she's never met?"
"Only one way to find out. I'll ask Delaney to put in a good word, see if Maya's available for consulting work."
Relief floods Jake's features, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Thanks, man. I owe you."
"You don't owe me anything," I tell him, meaning it. "Just promise me you'll actually listen to whatever advice she gives you instead of trying to charm your way out of trouble."
"I don't try to charm–"
"Morrison." I fix him with a look that cuts off his protest. "You've been skating by on your pretty face and small-town manners since junior league. This is serious. If Maya agrees to help you, treat her like the professional she is, not like another conquest."
Something flickers in Jake's expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Got it. No charm."
"Good." I start skating toward the locker room, then pause. "And Jake? For what it's worth, anyone who knows you knows those gambling allegations are garbage. You're too much of a control freak to risk your career on something that stupid."
His smile this time is genuine, reaching his eyes for the first time all morning. "Thanks. That... means a lot, actually."
In the locker room, the usual post-practice chaos surrounds us—guys peeling off equipment, arguing about lunch plans, and giving each other grief about everything from missed shots to questionable fashion choices. It's loud and crude and completely normal, and I drink in every second of it.
"So, Sullivan," Tommy says, pulling his jersey over his head and tossing it toward his equipment bag. "When do we get to meet this famous girlfriend of yours? The one who turned you into a romance expert?"
"She's not my girlfriend," I correct automatically, then grin at the collective eye roll from half the locker room. "She's my fiancée."
The whooping and hollering that erupts would be audible from the parking lot. Gloves and towels get thrown in my direction, and Rodriguez starts banging his stick against his locker in celebration.
"About damn time!" Someone yells from across the room.
"When's the wedding?" Asks Martinez, our starting goalie, looking genuinely excited. "Please tell me it's during the off-season. I am not missing Mac Sullivan's wedding for a hockey game."
"June," I tell them, warmth spreading through my chest at how enthusiastic they all are. "And you're all invited, so don't make plans."
"So, she owns a bookstore?" Tommy's sitting on the bench now, looking at me with the kind of fascination usually reserved for exotic animals. "Like, an actual bookstore, with real books?"
"Yes, Reeves, real books. You know, those things with pages and words?"
"Do they make a sound when you open them?" Jake chimes in, deadpan. "Or do you have to plug them in first?"
The entire room dissolves into laughter, and I flip them all off good-naturedly. "You're all invited to the wedding, but keep this up and you're sitting at the kid's table."
"Worth it," Tommy declares, then his expression turns curious. "But seriously, how does that work? You dating someone who's basically the opposite of everything we know about you?"
It's a fair question, one I've been asked in various forms by reporters, friends, and random people on the street ever since Delaney and I went public. How does a cynical professional athlete end up with a small-town romantic who believes in fairy tale endings?
"She makes me better," I say simply, the locker room falling quiet as I speak. "Makes me remember that there's good stuff in the world worth believing in. And she's tough as hell—anyone who can argue me into submission and look good doing it is someone I want on my team."
"Aw, Mac's getting all mushy," someone calls out, but the teasing is gentle now, affectionate rather than mocking.
"Yeah, well, wait until you meet her," I tell them, standing up and grabbing my gear bag. "She'll have half of you reading romance novels by Christmas."
"Never happening," Tommy says with absolute conviction.