EPILOGUE 1
ELIJAH
Three years later...
The grocery bags dig into my fingers as I fumble for the keys, cursing under my breath. I've probably bought enough food to feed the entire hockey team, but when your pregnant wife texts you a craving list, you don't question it—you just buy everything on the list and then some.
The door finally gives, and I shoulder my way inside our home, awkwardly juggling what feels like fifty pounds of provisions. "Sweetheart, I'm back!"
Before I can take three steps inside, a golden blur comes barreling down the hallway, nails clicking frantically against the hardwood floors. Pancake, our three-year-old golden retriever, practically slides into my legs, his entire back half wagging with his tail. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth, eyes bright with that pure doggy joy that never fails to make me laugh.
"Whoa there, buddy! Easy!" I carefully maneuver around him, trying not to drop the bags or step on his enthusiastic paws.
Pancake circles me, sniffing excitedly at the bags. I swear he can smell the dog treats I snuck in there from three rooms away.
"Where's Mommy, huh?" I ask him, scratching behind his ears with my one semi-free finger. "You keeping an eye on her like we talked about?"
Pancake tilts his head, looking at me with those soulful eyes like he's genuinely considering how to answer. I know it's ridiculous having full-on conversations with our dog, but hey, stranger things have happened. Like me, Elijah Deveraux, former commitment-phobe extraordinaire, now practically sprinting through the grocery store to find that specific brand of pickle Sam mentioned offhandedly three days ago.
"Sweetheart? I'm back!" I call again, making my way toward the kitchen with Pancake hot on my heels.
I set the bags down on the kitchen island with a relieved groan. My fingers are lined with red marks from carrying them, but it's worth it.
I start unpacking, creating little categories as I go—cravings (immediate access required), actual food (for human sustenance), and the random stuff Sam added to her list that made absolutely no sense but I bought anyway because I'm wrapped around her finger.
"Sam? You napping?" I call out again, arranging three different flavors of ice cream in the freezer. "If you are, don't get up. I'll come find you after I put away the—"
I hear the soft padding of footsteps, and then she appears in the doorway, and my heart does that stupid little flip thing it always does when I see her.
My wife, my Sam, with her hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing one of my old Ridgewater U hockey shirts stretched over her beautiful round belly. She's got one hand resting on the small of her back, the other cradling the underside of her bump, and she's not so much walking as waddling toward me.
God, she's fucking gorgeous.
"Hey, you," she says, her smile spreading slow and warm across her face.
"Hey yourself, beautiful," I reply, abandoning the groceries immediately. Some things can wait. Some things can't.
I cross to her in four strides and cup her face in my hands, pressing my lips to hers in a soft kiss that still, after all this time, feels like coming home.
When I pull back, her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. I drop one hand to her belly, feeling the firm roundness under my palm.
"And how's my little hockey star doing today?" I murmur, dropping to my knees to plant a kiss on her bump. "You being good to your mama? Because I gotta tell you, kid, she's the best there is, and if you're giving her trouble, you and I are gonna have to have a serious talk when you get here."
Sam's laugh ripples through her, and I feel the movement under my hand—a solid kick that never fails to amaze me.
"Oh my god," I whisper, pressing my face closer. "Did you feel that? He totally just responded to me. We're having a conversation, sweetheart. I'm talking to our son."
"He's been kicking nonstop for the past ten minutes," she says, running her fingers through my hair as I stay kneeling before her like she's some kind of goddess—which, if we're being honest, she kind of is. "I think he's antsy. Probably wants to come out and meet his dad before he becomes even more famous for winning the Stanley Cup."
I press another kiss to her belly.
"Hey, little man, we've got a deal, remember? You hang out in there for a few more weeks, let Mommy finish baking you properly, and then you can come out and meet us. I promise it'll be worth the wait. Your mom is pretty incredible, and I'm... well, I'm working on it."
"Stop it. You're going to be an amazing father."
I stand back up, unable to keep the grin off my face. "Damn right I am. I've been practicing my dad jokes for months."
It's only then that Sam seems to notice the mountain of groceries spread across our kitchen counters. Her eyes widen, and she gasps, gesturing at the abundance before us.
"Eli! Did you buy out the entire store? There's enough food here to last us through a zombie apocalypse." She picks up a package of Oreos—regular, Double Stuf, and the weird limited edition flavor she mentioned once in passing. "Three kinds of Oreos? Really?"
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably.
"I couldn't remember which ones you were craving this week, so I just got all of them. Problem solved."
She moves through the groceries, picking things up and putting them down with increasing disbelief. "Five different kinds of ice cream? An entire shelf of pickles? Eli, I'm pregnant, not preparing for hibernation."
"I'm going to be gone for five days," I remind her, sorting through the bags. "Five very long days in Vegas where I won't be able to run out at midnight because you suddenly need chocolate-covered pretzels with mustard."
"That was ONE TIME!"
"It was memorable," I counter with a grin. "Besides, I like taking care of you. Both of you." I gesture to her belly. "Call it my love language or whatever."
Sam's expression softens, and she reaches for my hand. "You're insane. Completely and utterly insane with your... your excessive grocery shopping and your middle-of-the-night pickle runs and the way you read those baby books out loud in different character voices."
"Hey, our kid needs to know I can do a mean Yoda impression from day one. It's essential parenting skills."
She steps closer, wrapping her arms around my waist as best she can with the bump between us. "You do too much. You're always so extra."
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, looking into those eyes that have always seen right through me. "When it comes to my family, 'extra' is the bare minimum. You and this little guy?" I place my hand on her belly again. "You deserve everything. The whole damn grocery store if that's what you want."
She leans up to kiss me, but then winces suddenly, her hand flying to her side. My heart instantly kicks into overdrive.
"What is it? What's wrong?" My voice comes out sharper than intended, panic rising like a tide.
Sam takes a deep breath, rubbing circles on the spot. "It's fine. Just Braxton Hicks again. False contractions."
"That's like the third time today," I say, my mind already racing ahead to worst-case scenarios. "Maybe we should call Dr. Cohen, just to be safe?"
"Eli," she says with that patient tone she uses when she thinks I'm overreacting, which, fair, happens a lot these days. "It's normal. I'm thirty-six weeks. This happens."
But I can't shake the feeling that's been growing stronger over the past few days—an intuition that our son isn't going to wait until his due date. "Sam, what if... what if he comes early? What if he decides to make his grand entrance while I'm in Vegas?"
The thought makes my stomach twist. "I'm thinking about talking to Coach. Maybe I can sit out this away game, just in case."
"Absolutely not," Sam cuts me off, her expression firm. "You are not missing Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals. This is what you've worked for all season."
"You and this baby are what I've worked for," I counter, more serious than I've ever been about anything. "The rest is just... hockey."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "Just hockey? Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"
I laugh despite myself. "You know what I mean. After everything... after all we went through..." I don't need to say it aloud. The years of Sam's cancer treatments are behind us, but never forgotten. The doctors warning us that pregnancy might be difficult or impossible after the chemotherapy. The way we'd tried anyway, hopeful but prepared for disappointment.
And then, like the miracle she is, Sam got pregnant almost immediately.
I shake my head slightly, still not sure how we got this lucky, how everything managed to fall into place after coming so close to losing it all.
"I still maintain it was my superior genetic material," I add, slipping back into humor because if I stay in that place for too long—the what-ifs, the almosts—I might not make it out.
"Oh, is that what it was?" Sam laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that still makes my heart flip. "Not the months of carefully timed... attempts?"
"Hey, don't undersell me. I knocked you up on the first try," I say, unable to keep the smugness from my voice. "That's some Olympic-level achievement right there. They should give out medals for that kind of efficiency."
"You're ridiculous," she says, but she's smiling. "And your son is going to be just as ridiculous if he's anything like you."
"Poor kid never stood a chance," I agree, pulling her close again. "But seriously, Sam. I have this feeling. Call it paternal intuition or whatever, but I think he's going to come early. And I need to be here when he does."
Sam places her hands on either side of my face, her touch gentle but her expression serious. "Our son is patient, just like his mom had to be for a very long time while waiting for his dad to get his act together. He'll wait until you're back."
"Just like Mommy, huh?" I murmur, pressing my forehead against hers. "Waiting for me to catch up to what you knew all along."
"And was it worth the wait?" she asks, her voice soft.
"Every second," I whisper, kissing her again.
She laughs against my mouth, the sound bright and beautiful.
"Anyways," she continues, "I won't be alone. Willow's staying with me the whole time you're gone. She's already claimed the guest room. But seriously, Eli. You need to be there for Game 4. The team needs you. It's tied two-all with the Knights, and Coach said in that last press conference that you're a big part of the matchup plan."
"Coach talks too much," I mutter, but I know she's right. This is what we've worked for all season. The team counting on me.
Still, the idea of missing his birth for a hockey game—even the Stanley Cup—feels unthinkable.
"Hey," Sam says softly, reading my face like she always does. "We still have four weeks. He's not going anywhere yet."
"Okay, but I'm calling you after every period, and if anything—and I mean anything—feels off, you tell Willow to drive you straight to the hospital and call me, and I'll be on the first plane back."
"Deal," she says, sealing it with a kiss. "Now help me put away all these groceries, and then maybe you can tell your son another one of those hockey stories he seems to love so much."
"Only if I get to do the voices," I bargain, already reaching for the freezer door.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," she says, and as I watch her sorting through the groceries, one hand absently cradling her belly, I'm struck again by how completely, ridiculously lucky I am.
Sam catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," I say, unable to keep the smile from my face. "Just thinking about how this—you, me, the baby, even Pancake over there trying to steal the cheese—this is everything I never knew I always wanted."
Her face softens, and in that moment, I know whatever happens—whether our son waits for his due date or decides to make an early appearance—we'll face it together. Because that's what we do. That's who we are.
Sam and Elijah. A team. A family.
Forever and always.