Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
Nico
I pulled into the driveway just after two on a Wednesday afternoon in September, windows down, the late summer sun warm on my arm.
Lunch with André and the guys had run long, Thompson telling some story about his girlfriend’s cat that had everyone laughing.
But I’d needed it. Preseason was wrapping up, the regular season started next week, and Wednesday lunches with the team had become routine again.
Something I’d almost lost.
Something I’d gotten back.
Evan’s Model 3 was in the garage when I pulled in, next to my Range Rover, both of them fitting like they’d always belonged there. I smiled at that. Three months of him living here, and it still caught me sometimes. The evidence of him. The permanence of us.
Inside, the house was quiet but not empty. I could feel him there even before I heard his voice drifting down from upstairs.
I dropped my keys on the table beside the entry—Evan’s system, not mine, but I’d learned—and looked around. The house had changed in small ways since he’d moved in over the summer. Not dramatically, just… better.
The family room was tidy, couch pillows actually arranged instead of thrown wherever I’d left them.
My framed jerseys still hung on the walls, but there was new artwork too.
Stuff we’d picked out together at a gallery Evan had dragged me to.
The bookshelf that used to hold dusty trophies was now clean and had Evan’s books mixed in.
The coffee table actually had coasters on it.
Everything had its place. That was Evan’s influence. Not obsessive about it, just… organized in a way I’d never been.
But my hockey bag was still by the door where I’d dropped it this morning, my sneakers next to it. Evan hadn’t tried to change that. Just made space for it.
Made space for me while carving out space for himself.
That was the trick. Not one person bending to fit the other. Both of us making room.
I walked into the kitchen and stopped.
Mail sorted on the counter—bills in one pile, junk in another, personal stuff in a third.
Evan’s doing. The fridge had our schedules posted side by side—my practice and game times, his client calls and project deadlines.
A grocery list in his handwriting. A sticky note I’d left this morning: Dinner tonight? I’ll cook.
And a photo held up by a Lasers logo magnet—the Briggs family plus Evan, taken at my parents’ house in July.
All of us lined up on their back deck, arms around each other, everyone smiling at the camera.
My mom had insisted on it, and I’d watched Evan relax into my dad’s side hug, Miguel slinging an arm over his shoulders, my family pulling him in like he’d always been there.
He had that photo on his phone. Looked at it sometimes when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
But I was always paying attention.
I heard his voice from upstairs—professional tone, confident. “Let me walk you through the Q-four strategy. I think if we focus on engagement metrics first…”
I smiled and started the coffeemaker. While the coffee brewed, I leaned against the counter and just… took it in. The house. Our house. The life we’d built here.
Six months ago, I’d been sitting in an empty locker room after getting ejected from a game, suspended, wondering if we’d survive.
Now I was standing in our kitchen, listening to Evan close a business deal upstairs, making coffee for both of us, and thinking about what to cook for dinner.
Normal. Easy.
Everything I’d almost thrown away.
The coffee finished. I poured both mugs and added cream and sugar to Evan’s—two sugars, a splash of cream, exactly how he liked it. I carried them upstairs, careful not to spill any on the carpet Evan had insisted we get cleaned.
His office was the second bedroom on the right, the one I’d been using for storage before he moved in.
He’d transformed it with a proper desk, dual monitors, an ergonomic chair, and plants on the windowsill that he actually kept alive.
One monitor showed a client call in progress.
The other had his project database open, calendar beside it, both full.
Booked solid through December, he’d told me last week. Turning down projects because he didn’t have capacity.
He’d rebuilt everything. Not just survived the crisis—thrived through it.
I waited in the doorway, not interrupting, just watching him work.
“Absolutely, I can have that to you by Friday,” he said, making notes on a pad. “I’ll send over the revised deck by end of day tomorrow.” Pause. “Perfect. Talk then.”
He ended the call and turned, saw me standing there with coffee.
His entire face lit up. “Hey. Come in.”
I crossed the room, handed him his creamer-laced coffee, and leaned down to kiss him. “How’s your day?”
“Busy.” He took a sip and sighed happily. “You make better coffee than I do.”
“You make better everything else.”
He smiled and gestured at his monitors. “Just wrapped a strategy call for a new client. Wesley referred them.”
I settled against the edge of his desk. “Wesley’s keeping you busy.”
“He’s been good about sending clients my way.” He stretched and rolled his shoulders. “This one’s interesting—they’re a small agency that works with public figures going through reputation issues. Want someone who understands brand rebuilding from the client’s side, not just the PR side.”
“That’s you.”
“Yeah. It is.”
There was confidence in his voice that hadn’t been there six months ago. Not arrogance, just certainty about what he was good at. What he’d built.
“How was lunch with the guys?” he asked.
“Good. Thompson’s girlfriend got another cat.”
“I heard about the cat. You texted me three cat memes during lunch.”
I grinned. “They were funny.”
“They were.” He set down his mug and stood up, stretching again. “I have another call in an hour, but I need a break.”
“Did you eat lunch?”
“No, I got pulled into back-to-back calls.”
“Come on. I’ll make you something.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
We went downstairs together, and I made Evan a sandwich while he sat at the kitchen bar telling me about his morning. Three client calls, two proposals sent, one new inquiry through LinkedIn.
“Turned down a project yesterday,” he said, accepting the plate I handed him.
“Yeah?”
“E-commerce company. Good client, decent budget. But I’m at capacity. Referred them to another consultant I know.”
I nodded. He’d mentioned the referral network he’d been building, of consultants he trusted, people he could send overflow work to. This was that working. “That’s good. You like their work?”
“She’s excellent. Good fit for them.”
“Amazing. You rebuilt everything.”
“We both did.” He met my eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Without us figuring out how to make this work.”
I leaned across the counter and kissed him. “Yeah. We figured it out.”
After lunch, I pulled him to the couch. I had to review game film on my tablet. He brought his laptop to finish an email, and I just wanted him close.
We settled in, his shoulder against mine, my arm around him, both of us doing our own thing but together. Comfortable silence. The kind we’d almost lost. The kind we’d fought to get back.
“Road trip next week,” I said. “Wednesday through Saturday. Denver, Utah, Vegas.”
“I know. It’s on the fridge.”
“You okay with that?”
He looked up from his laptop. “Nico. It’s four days. I’ll be fine.”
“I know. Just checking.”
“I have three client presentations next week anyway. I’ll be busy.” He paused. “But I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
“Text me after the games?”
“Always.”
He went back to his email. After a moment he said, without looking up, “Danny texted this morning. Nothing to report.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” A small smile. “It’s been three weeks of nothing to report.”
“How does that feel?”
“Like I can breathe.” He closed his laptop. “Oh—I ran into a fan while getting my latte this morning. Guy recognized me from a game photo. Asked if I was Nicolás Briggs’s boyfriend.”
I looked at him. “And?”
“I said yes.” He shrugged, easy. “He said you were great against Montreal and walked away.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He opened his laptop again. “I bought my latte and came home.”
I watched him for a moment, this man who’d once left a grocery store cart in the middle of an aisle and driven home shaking. Saying yes to a stranger and buying his latte and coming home.
“I’m proud of you,” I said.
He looked up. “I know.” Not deflecting. Just receiving it.
His phone alarm went off at three fifty.
“Client call,” he said, closing his laptop. “Ten minutes.”
“Go. I’m going to finish this film and figure out what to make for dinner.”
He stood, stretched his back, then eyed me skeptically. “You’re really cooking?”
“I said I would.”
“Nico, the last time you tried to cook, you set off the smoke alarm making toast.”
“That was one time. And the toaster was broken.”
“The toaster was fine. You put it on the highest setting and forgot about it.”
“Go make your money,” I said, shoving him toward the stairs. “I’ve got this.”
He laughed and headed up to his office. I heard his door close and went back to the game film for a few minutes, but I was already thinking about dinner.
How hard could pasta be? Boil water, add pasta, and heat the sauce. Easy.
I went to the kitchen and pulled out a pot. Filled it with water, set it on the stove, and set the burner on high. While that heated, I found a jar of marinara in the pantry, dumped it into a saucepan, and turned on the burner.
See? Cooking.
I went back to my tablet, reviewing the power play breakdown while keeping one eye on the stove. The water boiled. I added the pasta, stirred it once, and went back to the film.
Five minutes later, I smelled something.
Not a good something. Burning something.
“Shit.”
I jumped up and ran to the kitchen. The sauce was smoking, stuck to the bottom of the pan in a black, crusty layer. The pasta water was boiling over onto the stove.