Epilogue - Six Months Later
The slide deck was open, numbers lined up clean and crisp on my laptop screen. Penalty trends by quarter. Shot efficiency in high-pressure matchups. All of it pulling together like a story I’d been learning to tell for months.
I was in a conference room at the practice facility, which still felt a little surreal. Not the room itself, but the fact that I was here, that people were listening.
Head coach. Two assistants. Team captains. Dylan Morrison sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed but nodding occasionally, while Voss leaned back in his chair with that easy confidence of a captain that made everything look effortless.
And me.
Six months ago, I would’ve prefaced every sentence with “I’m sorry” or “this might be wrong, but—” and second-guessed every word before it left my mouth, braced for someone to tell me I didn’t belong there. But my role was clear now.
Hockey Operations Analyst.
It wasn’t a flashy title, wasn’t press-facing or standing behind a podium, but I translated data into actionable insights. I made numbers mean something.
And I was fucking good at it.
“So if you look at the third period breakdowns,” I said, clicking to the next slide, “fatigue starts showing up in small ways first. Shift length creeps up. Recovery time between shifts drops. By the final ten games, we were seeing a fifteen percent increase in minor penalties after the eighteen-minute mark.”
One of the assistants made a note. Voss nodded.
“What the numbers suggest,” I continued, “is that we need to build in more rotation earlier in the season. Not just managing minutes in the moment, but planning for cumulative fatigue.”
No one interrupted. They were listening.
That should’ve felt normal by now. It didn’t. But I’d stopped waiting for it to.
I clicked to the next slide, and Andrew’s name appeared at the top. I’d been careful with this one, framed it the way I would for any player—objective, data-driven, not personal—even if most of the room probably knew exactly how personal it was.
“Knox’s production increased in the final stretch,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Discipline improved. Fewer retaliatory penalties. Ice time efficiency went up once—”
The door didn’t just open. It slammed back hard enough to bounce off the wall, and Andrew Knox strode into the room like he was storming the ice after a bad call.
Tank came with him.
Our one-eyed, ninety-pound disaster of a rescue dog took one look at the room full of people and decided this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.
He let out a bark that could’ve shattered glass, lunging forward with enough force that Andrew had to brace himself to keep from being dragged across the floor.
“You done,” Andrew asked, looking straight at me like there wasn’t a room full of staff watching this unfold, “or you still roasting me?”
Tank barked again, thrilled by the attention, and made another heroic attempt to reach the conference table. His tail, which had a mind of its own, knocked into a chair. Someone swore under their breath.
“What the hell is that?” one of the assistants asked.
“It’s our dog, dumbass.” Andrew’s tone was completely casual, like bringing a hundred pounds of chaos to a professional meeting was standard practice. “He’s cool.”
Tank was absolutely not cool and had not been cool about anything since we adopted him from the shelter.
At the present moment, Tank was currently laser-focused on what I was pretty sure was a dropped granola bar under the table, the same way he’d destroyed my favorite shoe last week because it must have smelled interesting.
I felt heat creep up the back of my neck, but it wasn’t quite panic. Old Matthew would’ve spiraled, would’ve apologized six times and tried to smooth everything over while internally calculating how badly this reflected on him.
This Matthew knew Tank was probably going to eat someone’s briefcase if we didn’t leave soon.
“We’re good,” the head coach said, glancing at me. “Nice work, Quinn.”
That was it. No big declaration, but it was confirmation.
I belonged here.
I closed my laptop. Didn’t scramble. Didn’t crumble. Just closed it.
Andrew grinned. “Good. Because we’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” Voss asked.
“My sister’s home from MIT for the weekend. Lunch is happening now.” He checked his watch. “Diane’s already ordered appetizers. We’re late.”
Dylan’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t have a sister.”
“I do now,” Andrew said, like this was obvious.
“He means my little sister,” I explained.
There was a crunching sound from under the table.
Everyone looked down.
Tank had found someone’s pen and was happily destroying it, bits of plastic scattered around his paws like confetti.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the assistants muttered.
Andrew was unbothered. “Come on. Let’s go.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Dylan Morrison smirked and said, “Congrats, Quinn. On this job. And the. . . family.”
Voss nodded once, approving, though his eyes were still on Tank’s destruction.
One of the assistants clapped me on the shoulder as he stood. “Don’t keep them waiting. And maybe take the dog before he eats my laptop.”
No one treated Andrew’s interruption like a threat to my standing. No one looked at me like I’d just lost credibility.
I grabbed my bag, still processing, while Andrew was already halfway to the door with Tank pulling him forward with alarming enthusiasm.
“I can’t believe you brought Tank,” I said, catching up.
“I was trying to get here earlier,” Andrew said. “Wanted to catch your presentation. I miss your weird muttering.”
I huffed. “I don’t mutter.”
“You used to. All those stats. Power play percentages. Penalty kill numbers.” He glanced back at me. “You stopped.”
He was right. I had stopped. Somewhere between the panic attacks and now, I’d stopped needing the numbers to ground me. They were still there, but they didn’t feel like a lifeline anymore. More like background noise.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I did.”
“Shame. It was cute.”
“It was anxiety.”
“Still cute.” He grinned.
We were in the hallway now, Tank pulling Andrew down the corridor like he had somewhere very important to be. Andrew swore under his breath, nearly tripping over the leash, and I laughed before I could stop myself.
Andrew shot me a look. “You think this is funny?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I saved you from a boring meeting. Show some gratitude.”
Tank barked. Andrew stumbled. I laughed again.
We pushed through the doors and into the parking lot. It was the kind of day that felt like the start of something. New season energy. Forward motion.
I glanced at Andrew, who was wrestling with Tank and muttering something about “sit” and “stay” that Tank was completely ignoring.
This was my life now.
Months ago, I’d walked into Andrew’s penthouse convinced I’d last eleven days, maybe less. I’d been one panic attack away from giving up entirely. And now I had a job, a real one. Not temporary. Not something I had to prove myself worthy of every single day.
Now? Now I had a future. I had a family waiting at lunch. I had Andrew, who’d just brought our one-eyed dog Tank to my work presentation like it was a completely reasonable thing to do.
“Matthew.” Andrew stopped walking, and Tank finally sat, panting happily. “You good?”
I smiled. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He studied me for a second, like he was checking, making sure. Then he kissed me, quick but claiming.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Before Diane orders the entire menu.”
We walked toward the car, Tank trotting between us, surprisingly well-behaved now that we were outside.
I wasn’t temporary anymore. I wasn’t a handler or an assistant waiting to be discarded when the contract ran out. I was walking out of the practice facility with a job, a future, and a family waiting at lunch.
This wasn’t the life I’d planned.
It was better.
Thank you for reading!