Epilogue
Lisa
The arena feels different tonight.
It looks the same as it always does when I walk through the glass doors and into the familiar hallway that smells of popcorn, cold air, and rubber skate guards dragging across concrete floors somewhere in the distance.
Still, something about the energy inside the building is sharper than usual, brighter somehow, like everyone here knows they are about to watch something important happen, even if they don’t all know exactly why it matters as much as it does.
Or maybe that’s just me. Because tonight Blake is playing again.
And for the first time since the night he disappeared behind a curtain in a hospital hallway while a doctor told me words like fracture and muscle damage and uncertainty, I am about to watch him step back onto the ice where he belongs.
“I forgot how hockey arenas smell,” Anna says beside me as we step into the seating section together.
“They don’t smell,” I laugh.
“They absolutely do,” she insists. “There’s nachos, and beer, and cold air, and testosterone.”
“That’s not a scent.”
“I’m pretty sure I am smelling it now.”
I smile despite myself as we find our seats.
Having Anna here tonight makes everything feel steadier in a way I didn’t realize I needed until she showed up yesterday afternoon with a suitcase and a hug that lasted longer than expected.
“I still can’t believe I get to see him play live,” she says as she looks around the arena.
“You picked a good game,” I reply.
“I picked the game where your boyfriend returns from a dramatic injury and emotional recovery and wins heroically,” she corrects.
“That’s not guaranteed.”
“It’s narratively required,” she says confidently.
Gwen, Tess, and Leo arrive.
Tess is carrying three drinks, as if she expects all of us to need them immediately.
“You are early,” she says as she drops into the seats beside us.
“We wanted good seats,” Anna explains.
“These are excellent seats,” Leo adds, looking toward the ice with the calm confidence of someone who somehow always ends up exactly where he intended to be.
“You didn’t even have to say that,” Tess mutters. “You probably own half this section.”
“I do not own half this section,” Leo says mildly.
“You do.”
“Don’t stroke the man’s ego,” Gwen teases Leo, and I can’t help but laugh.
“You ready?” Leo asks me as he sits down.
“No,” I answer honestly.
“Good,” he says. “That means it matters.”
The lights dim slightly. The crowd begins to rise. Music rolls through the arena speakers like thunder moving across the ceiling. And suddenly, I can’t breathe properly anymore because this is happening. He’s actually coming back.
“They’re lining up,” Tess whispers unnecessarily.
“I know,” I whisper back.
“Relax,” Anna says beside me.
“I am relaxed.”
“You are not relaxed.”
“I am aggressively relaxed.”
“That’s not a thing,” she laughs.
Enter Sandman begins to play throughout the arena. The crowd rises to its feet. The doors open. And the Grizzlies skate out onto the ice.
Jake first.
Then Jones.
Then Zane, skating fast and confident like he always does, waves toward our section when he spots us.
Then… Blake.
The moment he appears, the crowd gets louder. Not just cheering. Roaring. Standing. Welcoming him back like they’ve been waiting for this exact second since the night he left the ice, holding his shoulder and trying not to show how much it hurt.
“Oh my god,” Anna whispers. “He’s really back.”
I don’t answer because I can’t. Because he’s smiling. Because he’s skating normally. Because he looks exactly like himself again.
He spots us almost immediately.
His eyes find mine in the crowd like they always do, like they always have, like they always will, and when he lifts his stick slightly in our direction, I forget entirely that there are thousands of people in this arena besides me.
“He waved at you,” Anna whispers.
“I noticed.”
“You’re glowing.”
The puck drops. And suddenly the game begins. Fast. Sharp. Relentless. The way hockey always is when it matters.
The Vipers play aggressively from the first minute, clearly testing Blake early to see whether the shoulder really holds or whether the recovery changed something they can exploit.
For the first few shifts, I can’t stop watching every movement he makes, every turn, every check, every pass, waiting for some sign that something still hurts.
But nothing looks wrong. Nothing looks slower. Nothing looks uncertain. He looks like Blake. Completely.
“He’s moving normally,” Anna says quietly.
“I know.”
“You’re still holding your breath.”
“I know,” I whisper again.
Halfway through the first period, Zane intercepts the puck near center ice and sends it straight across to Blake in a movement so familiar it feels like watching muscle memory instead of strategy.
Blake accelerates immediately toward the offensive zone like he’s been waiting weeks to do exactly that again.
The defense closes in fast. Too fast. And for a second, my stomach drops the same way it did the night everything went wrong. But he pivots. Cuts left. Passes cleanly to Jake. Shot. Goal.
The arena explodes. Jake jumps into Blake. Zane crashes into both of them seconds later. And I’m already on my feet before I realize I stood up.
“He did that,” Anna says beside me.
“He really did that,” I breathe.
The rest of the first period plays faster than I expect, the Grizzlies holding control most of the time while the opposing team tries repeatedly to push Blake into heavier contact than usual, but each time he moves out of it smoothly, confidently, like the injury belongs to another season entirely now instead of this one.
“He’s not holding back,” Tess says.
“He never does,” Gwen replies quietly.
By the second period, the game gets rougher. More physical. More urgent.
The other team knows they’re behind. And they know Blake matters tonight. Which means they go after him again.
The hit comes from the side. Hard. Legal. But close enough to the boards that my heart jumps into my throat before I can stop it.
He stays up. Keeps skating. Takes the puck back anyway. And passes it to Zane.
Shot.
Goal.
The crowd loses its mind.
Zane turns immediately toward Blake before celebrating with anyone else, tapping his helmet once like they’ve been doing that exact gesture since before either of them realized it would matter this much someday.
“They’re unstoppable together,” Anna says.
“They always have been,” I answer.
The third period is defense-heavy. Tense. Close.
The opposing team scores once with six minutes left on the clock, tightening the score enough that the entire arena begins leaning forward at the same time, like everyone here understands exactly what’s at stake tonight.
“We’ve got this,” Tess whispers.
“We absolutely have this,” Gwen agrees.
I don’t say anything.
Because I’m watching Blake again.
With less than a minute left, the puck breaks loose near center ice. Zane catches it. Turns. Sees Blake. Passes. Blake skates forward, fast.
Faster than anyone expects after surgery. Faster than anyone expects tonight. And shoots. The puck hits the back of the net.
The buzzer sounds.
The arena erupts.
And suddenly, everyone around me is standing and shouting and hugging each other while the team floods toward Blake on the ice like they already knew this moment was going to belong to him before the game even started.
“He’s back,” Anna says.
“He’s really back.”
I smile because she’s right. Because he is. Because everything we fought through brought us here. And because when he looks up into the crowd again, he finds me exactly where I’m standing.
—
The arena is still loud when we leave. Not the kind of loud that comes from music or announcements or fans chanting player names across the stands, but the kind that lives under your skin after something big happens, something you waited for longer than you admitted even to yourself, something that changes the shape of the future without asking permission first.
Blake played again.
And somewhere between the moment the puck hit the net and the moment the final buzzer sounded, I realized I had been holding my breath for weeks without knowing it.
“You’re quiet,” Blake says as we step outside into the cold night air together.
“You won,” I reply.
“I noticed.”
“You scored.”
“I noticed that too.”
“I’m still processing.”
“That makes two of us.”
The drive to his house feels shorter than usual, even though neither of us is rushing.
Neither of us says very much while we’re moving through the dark streets together, because the energy from the game hasn’t faded yet.
I can still see flashes of it every time I close my eyes, the way he skated, the way he smiled when he found me in the stands afterward, the way his hand settled at the small of my back like it belonged there.
“You were watching me the entire time,” he says.
“I did watch you.”
“That sounded dramatic.”
“It was,” I laugh.
“I like it.”
When we step inside his house, everything feels quieter than the arena did. By contrast, the silence wraps around us as if the night is finally catching up after hours of noise, movement, and cheering crowds.
Neither of us turns the lights on right away. We don’t need them. The soft glow from the kitchen and the streetlights outside is enough.
“You ok?” he asks gently.
“I think I am now,” I answer.
He studies my face for a second longer than necessary.
“Now?” he repeats.
“I didn’t realize how scared I still was until tonight,” I admit. “Watching you skate again felt like breathing properly for the first time in weeks.”
Something in his expression shifts when I say that.
He steps toward me slowly. Not like he’s unsure. Like he’s giving me time.
“You stayed,” he says quietly.
“Of course I stayed.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” I answer. “I wanted to.”
His hand lifts to my cheek the same way it did the first night in Nashville, familiar now in a way that still surprises me sometimes, and the warmth of his palm against my skin makes my heart start beating faster even before he leans closer.
“I kept thinking about you the whole game,” he murmurs.
“That seems distracting.”
“It was motivating.”
“That sounds safer.”
When he kisses me, it isn’t tentative. It isn’t hesitant. It feels like something that’s been waiting all night. All week. Maybe longer.
My hands slide into his jacket automatically, pulling him closer without thinking, and he exhales softly against my mouth like he’s been holding something in since the moment he stepped onto the ice tonight.
“You scared me,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I didn’t like not knowing what the future looked like.”
“I didn’t either.”
“But now?” I say.
“Now I know exactly what it looks like,” he answers.
He pulls back just enough to look at me properly.
“You’re part of it,” he adds.
The words land somewhere deep in my chest.
“I hope so,” I whisper.
“You are,” he says again.
The second kiss is slower.
Deeper.
Less about celebration and more about something steadier, something grounded and certain in a way that makes the rest of the world feel very far away.
My fingers find his shoulders carefully without thinking, still aware of the injury even now, and he smiles against my lips when he notices.
“I’m ok,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to be careful with me.”
“I want to be.”
We move toward the couch without deciding to. Toward each other without hesitation. Toward something that doesn’t feel rushed or uncertain or fragile anymore.
His arms wrap around me more firmly this time, stronger than they were weeks ago, stronger than they were even in Nashville, and the realization that he’s really back, not just on the ice but here with me, fully here, makes something inside me soften in a way I didn’t expect.
“You make everything feel different,” I whisper.
“Better different?” he asks.
“Better,” I say.
Later, when the house is quiet again and the night has settled around us completely, I’m lying with my head against his shoulder listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside the windows.
For the first time since everything started with him, I’m not thinking about what might happen next.
I’m not thinking about what could go wrong.
I’m just thinking about him.
“You know,” I say softly, tracing my fingers along his arm, “I think this might be my favorite version of us.”
“Which version is that?” he asks.
“The one where we made it through everything,” I answer.
He smiles. Pulls me closer. And kisses my forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Me too.”