EPILOGUE 2
SAM
I'm perched on the edge of our couch, my Panthers jersey—Eli's number 78—stretched taut over my very pregnant belly as Willow arranges a small feast on the coffee table. The smell of buttered popcorn fills our living room, mixing with the aroma of chicken wings and those chocolate-covered pretzels I've been obsessed with for the last trimester.
Tonight's the night—Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals—and while I should be in that arena watching my husband skate for glory, I'm stuck here on doctor's orders, due date looming like a timer about to go off.
"Do you think we have enough food?" Willow asks, stepping back to survey our spread with mock seriousness. "I mean, we might starve during overtime."
I laugh, shifting uncomfortably as little Henry—we've already settled on the name, after my dad—does what feels like a triple axel inside me. "If we eat all this, I'll definitely go into labor from sheer food coma alone."
"That would be quite the story," Willow snickers, dropping beside me on the couch. "My future godson, born via buffalo wing overdose."
The pre-game show drones on, analysts debating stats and matchups, but all I can think about is Eli. My husband. About to play the biggest game of his life, and I'm not there. I run my fingers over the painted "78" on my cheek, feeling like some bizarre echo of my college days when I'd scream myself hoarse at Ridgewater games, my face covered in blue and gold paint, proudly wearing his number and initials.
"You're doing the face again," Willow says, nudging me with her elbow.
"What face?"
"The 'I'm pretending I'm not sad but actually I'm devastated' face."
"I should be there, Will, but I'm stuck on this couch looking like I swallowed a beach ball."
"A very cute beach ball," Willow offers, patting my belly. "Besides, you're growing an actual human. I think that's a pretty solid excuse."
The camera pans across the arena, and my heart squeezes when it finds Eli during warm-ups.
God, he looks good in that Panthers jersey. He's talking to his linemates, face serious beneath his helmet, but then he does something that makes my throat tighten—he looks up into the stands, scanning slowly, and I know exactly who he's searching for.
"There's Mom and Caroline," I whisper as the camera catches them in their Panthers gear, Dad's old lucky scarf draped around Mom's neck. The camera lingers on Eli again, and I see the moment he spots them—spots the empty seat between them that should be mine. His expression flickers just for a second, so brief I doubt anyone else would notice, but I do. I always do.
"He understands, Sam," Willow says softly.
"I know. But still."
The puck drops, and just like that, we're pulled into the vortex of the game. Willow and I lean forward, popcorn forgotten as the Panthers and Knights battle for possession. It's brutal, beautiful hockey, exactly what you'd expect from a Game 7. The Knights score first, a sneaky redirect that even their goalie couldn't have stopped.
"That's okay, that's okay," I mutter, unconsciously rubbing my belly. "They always play better from behind anyway."
By the second period, we're tied 1-1, and my voice is already getting hoarse from shouting at the TV. "COME ON, REF, ARE YOU BLIND? THAT WAS BOARDING!"
"Pretty sure they can't hear you from here, babe," Willow laughs, but she's just as invested, her knuckles white around a throw pillow.
Eli gets the puck at center ice, dekes past one defender, then another. He's flying, that familiar smooth stride that still makes my heart race after all these years. He crosses the blue line, cuts left, then shoots—the puck sails over the goalie's shoulder, top corner.
"YES!" I spring to my feet, arms raised in triumph. "THAT'S MY HUSBAND! THAT'S MY FREAKING HUSBAND!"
Willow jumps up beside me, and we're doing our old celebration dance, the same one from college, though mine is more of an awkward waddle now. The camera cuts to Eli's celebration, his teammates piling on him against the boards, and when he emerges, he points straight to the camera and then makes the rocking baby motion with his arms.
For me. For us.
"Oh my god, he just—did you see—" I'm laughing and crying now, hormones in full chaos mode.
"Classic Elijah," Willow grins.
Five minutes later, he does it again. A beautiful one-timer from the point during a power play, the puck flying like a missile into the net. The arena erupts, and so do we, jumping and screaming like lunatics in our living room.
"He's unstoppable tonight!" I crow, dancing in place. "That's two! Two goals in a Stanley Cup Final game seven! He's—"
And that's when I feel it. The sudden warm gush between my legs, the unmistakable sensation that stops my celebration mid-sentence.
"Willow," I say, voice eerily calm. "Either I just peed myself in excitement, or my water just broke."
Her eyes go wide, flicking down to the growing wet patch on my leggings. "Holy shit. Holy SHIT."
"I'm going to go with holy shit," I agree, then wince as the first contraction hits. "Definitely holy shit."
The next few minutes are a blur of activity. Willow sprints for the hospital bag I've had packed for weeks while I quickly change clothes, pausing to breathe through another contraction. I waddle to the car, one hand on my belly, the other clutching my phone to text my mom.
Water broke. Going to hospital now. Tell Eli after the game. DO NOT tell him during.
"You sure about that last part?" Willow asks, glancing at my phone as she helps me into the passenger seat. "He's going to kill us all when he finds out."
"He needs to focus," I insist, buckling up as Willow tears out of our driveway. "This is his moment. The baby will wait."
"I don't think the baby cares about the Stanley Cup, Sam."
"Well, he better start learning," I joke, then grip the door handle as another contraction comes. "Oh god, this is happening."
Two hours later, I'm in a hospital bed, breathing through contractions that are getting steadily more intense. The game has ended—Panthers 5, Knights 4—and the Stanley Cup is theirs. My brother scored a hat trick, including the game-winner.
"Breathe through it, Sam, just like we practiced," I mutter to myself.
Another contraction builds, stronger than the last, and I'm clutching the bedrails, trying to remember how to breathe when the door to my room flies open with enough force to bounce off the wall.
And there he is.
Eli, my husband, stands in the doorway, chest heaving, face flushed. He's still in his full hockey uniform minus the skates—jersey damp with sweat, playoff beard thick on his jaw, hair matted from his helmet. He looks wild, panicked, and absolutely perfect.
"Sweetheart," he breathes, crossing the room in three long strides. His hands cup my face, eyes searching mine frantically. "Sweetheart, I'm here. I'm here."
"You're supposed to be holding the Cup," I manage, tears streaming now. "Eli, you won. You won the Stanley Cup."
"Fuck the Cup," he says fiercely, pressing his forehead to mine. "You think I'd miss this? Our son being born? Not a chance in hell."
He's still wearing his hockey pants, shoulder pads bulky beneath his jersey, but he leans down to kiss me, and I taste salt—his sweat, my tears, I don't know anymore.
"I was so scared," I admit when the kiss breaks. "The contractions started, and all I could think was that you weren't here, and what if something went wrong, and—"
"Nothing's going wrong," he promises, stripping off his gloves to take my hand properly. "I'm right here, sweetheart. Right where I belong. Always have been."
"You smell terrible," I laugh through my tears.
"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly have time to shower after the game. Got the news from your mom and just... ran. Pretty sure I set a land speed record getting out of that arena."
Another contraction hits, and I crush his hand in mine, groaning through it. When it passes, I look up to see him watching me with such tender concern that my heart feels too big for my chest.
Eight hours later, I'm exhausted beyond belief, but it's the most beautiful exhaustion I've ever felt. I'm propped up in bed, holding our son—our perfect, tiny, red-faced son—against my chest. Henry James Deveraux, seven pounds four ounces, with a tuft of blond hair and his father's chin.
"He's perfect," I whisper, running a finger along his impossibly soft cheek. "Eli, look what we made."
My husband sits on the edge of the bed beside us, now in clean clothes, his damp hair still slightly tousled from the quick shower he managed to take before little Henry was born—thanks to Zach, who rushed over from the arena with his duffel so he wouldn't be stuck in sweat and gear for this moment. There's still a faint trace of eye black stubbornly clinging to his skin, but it's smudged and softened now, like everything else about him.
His eyes haven't left our son since the doctor placed him in my arms.
"Can I... can I hold him?" he asks, voice rough with emotion.
Carefully, I transfer our son to his arms, watching as Eli cradles him with the kind of gentle precision I've never seen from him before, like Henry is made of spun glass.
"Hey, little man," Eli whispers, and I see fresh tears spill over. "I'm your dad. God, that's... that's wild to say out loud. I'm your dad."
Henry blinks up at him, tiny fist escaping the blanket, and Eli offers his finger, which Henry immediately grabs onto.
"Strong grip," Eli laughs wetly. "Future hockey player right there."
"Or a surgeon," I suggest.
"Or whatever the hell he wants to be," Eli amends, kissing our son's forehead. "I'm going to love you so much, buddy. I already do. More than anything in this world except your mom. And I promise—" his voice cracks, "—I promise I'm gonna do my best to be the dad you deserve. To give you everything. To be there, always."
He looks up at me, eyes shining. "Thank you, Sam. For him. For us. For everything."
I reach out to touch his face, this man who once seemed so unreachable, now completely undone by the tiny human in his arms. "We did this together. Just like everything else."
Eli shifts our son in his arms so he can lean over and kiss me, soft and reverent. When he pulls back, the look in his eyes makes me catch my breath—he's looking at me and little Henry like we are the championship trophy he's been chasing his whole life.
And I know, in this moment, that all the pain, all the fear, all the waiting has led us exactly where we were always meant to be.
Home. Together. Champions of our own little world.
***THE END***