Epilogue
Declan
The tunnel is wider here. The lights are brighter, the concrete smoother, the air filtering in from the ice scoured clean by a filtration system that costs more than my childhood home.
This isn’t the Titans’ barn. It’s the show.
Two years ago, a game with stakes this high would have paralyzed me. It would have felt like a choke point.
Now it just feels like work. Good work.
The rubber mats flex under my blades as I walk, each step a solid, measured clack. My gear feels heavy in all the right ways. My heart is steady. Not the frantic, wild beat from my college days. Not the hollow, numb thrum from the years running from everything except the puck.
Just strong. Grounded.
I roll my shoulders once. Pads creak. Gloves flex. My hands are steady.
Adrian—who got drafted to the same city, because the universe apparently has a sense of humor—is already out there, cutting lazy warm-up circles. He taps his stick against the boards near my glove as I approach, grinning through his cage.
“Don’t trip, rookie,” he chirps. “Your girl is watching.”
I ignore him, but the corner of my mouth lifts.
The roar from the stands swells as the announcer hits the pre-game script. The lights drop. The spotlight hits the crease.
I don’t step out yet.
I’m waiting for her.
It takes a few seconds for the security guard to wave her past the checkpoint. I feel her before I see her—like the air shifts, like the static in the tunnel focuses.
Then there she is.
Talia.
She’s standing by the wall just past the gate, exactly where she said she’d be. She looks tired—med school finals week is no joke—but she looks like the warmest thing in the building.
The lanyard dangles from her neck, swinging gently with her breath. It’s an official NHL Family pass, laminated and gold-rimmed. It looks right against the front of my jersey—my professional jersey—hanging half to her knees. My name on the back. Number 13 on the sleeves.
The sight hits me harder than any open-ice check. Every time.
The sleeves are rolled up so her hands are free, fingers tucked into the front pockets of her jeans.
The hem of the jersey slides just over her hips.
I know exactly what’s under it, because I watched her get dressed in our penthouse this morning, drinking coffee while she listed off anatomy terms I’ll never remember.
She’s not smiling now. Not really.
Her mouth is soft, slightly parted, her eyes dark and bright and locked on me with an intensity that feels like a hand around my throat. Possessive. Proud. Steady.
The noise, the team, the playoffs—all of it drops away.
There’s just her.
I stop in front of her, close enough that the bottom bar of my cage is eye-level with her nose. The cold of the ice spills in from the gate at my back; warmth radiates from her.
“You’re supposed to be in the suite,” I say.
The words come out rough and low, my voice distorted a little by the mask.
“The suite is boring,” she whispers. “Too many suits. Not enough you.”
She tips her chin up. The bruise I put on her collarbone last night—a deep, circular mark my mouth worked there on purpose—peeks over the stretched collar of my jersey before the fabric falls back into place.
She remembers our deal. The one she made years ago in a college kitchen, daring me not to show up in my own life.
Begin with me. End with me.
She steps in, closing the last inch between us.
Her small, bare hands reach up and wrap around the bottom of my cage, fingers curling into the metal. The gesture is possessive as hell. It lands like a claim, right in the center of my chest.
She tugs me down.
I go easily, all that weight, all that muscle, folding for her without a fight.
She rises onto her toes. Her breath hits the cold metal, fogging it for a second, leaving a little crescent of condensation.
She presses her mouth to the painted grille, right over my lips, the kiss landing cold and hard through steel. It doesn’t matter.
I feel it everywhere.
Heat slices down my spine, sharp and instant.
“Begin with me,” she whispers.
My hand, wrapped in thick padding and leather, comes up instinctively. I press my blocker over her fingers, flattening her small hand against the bars, pinning her there for just a beat.
“Always,” I breathe back.
The word puffs white against the mask.
Her eyes soften. The haunted edge that lived there when we met is long gone.
Straightening slowly, my hand slides off hers.
My feet move toward the gate. Stepping onto the ice, the cold slides up through my blades.
The familiar hiss of steel on fresh-cut ice is a song my bones know by heart.
Gliding backward toward the crease, I turn once to look back down the length of the rink.
She’s still there by the wall. She lifts one hand, two fingers pressed against her own lips, then pointed at me.
Finish it.
I dip my chin once.
My temple taps the post. Right. Left. The world gets small and sharp and clear.
The roar of the crowd swells.
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something I have to block out.
It feels like backup.
Talia
The rink smells the same.
It doesn’t matter that this arena holds twenty thousand people or that the ice is maintained by a dedicated engineering team. It still smells like cold, ozone, and that faint metallic-penny tang.
It’s the same smell that used to make my lungs seize.
Now, when I breathe it in, my chest expands.
It hits memories—how could it not?—but those memories aren’t just one night anymore. They’re layered. College games. The draft. The move to the city. Declan holding my hand while I opened my med school acceptance letter.
I’m not in the owner’s box. I hate it up there. It’s too sterile.
I’m standing in the standing-room section right behind the glass, flanked by my people.
Zoe flew in last night, wearing a jersey she bedazzled herself.
Clara and Genny are sharing popcorn—Clara wearing Adrian's jersey, a wedding band glinting on her finger. My dad is here too, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the ice with the critical eye of a coach who can’t quite turn it off.
But he’s not coaching today. He’s just a dad. And a fan.
“He looks good,” my dad murmurs, eyes tracking Declan’s warm-up movements. “Tight. Focused.”
“He’s ready,” I say.
My dad looks at me. The lines around his eyes have softened over the last two years. Since the scandal, since he rebuilt the Titans program the right way, he’s been lighter.
“You good?” he asks, checking. He always checks when we’re at a rink.
“I’m good, Dad,” I say, and I mean it.
My gaze finds him automatically.
Declan.
He’s in his crease. He looks like a statue until the puck gets anywhere near our zone; then he becomes something else entirely.
The game is a blur of violence and speed. The NHL is faster, harder, meaner than college ever was. Bodies smash into the glass right in front of us, shaking the boards.
But Declan is the anchor.
He shuts down a breakaway in the second period that makes the entire arena vibrate. He tracks a deflection in the third that defies physics, glove snapping out to snatch air and rubber.
When the final horn sounds, the noise is deafening.
We won. We’re going to the Finals.
The team floods toward the net, a tidal wave of jerseys collapsing over #13.
He lets them have it for a beat. Then he starts shrugging them off.
Declan peels out of the knot of bodies, skating alone toward my side of the boards. He ignores the cameras. He ignores the three stars selection.
His eyes are already on me.
He reaches the glass right in front of us and slams his stick against it, twice.
Clack. Clack.
Our signal.
End with me.
My palms are already flat against the glass. He presses the blade of his stick there, right under them.
My dad steps up beside me. He raises a hand, giving a sharp, respectful salute through the glass.
Declan nods at him—man to man, pro to pro—before his eyes lock back on mine.
He taps the glass once more. Then he’s gone.
Hours later, the noise has faded into a pleasant ache behind my eyes.
We end up on the balcony of the penthouse. It’s a warm night, the city humidity mixing with the cool breeze off the river. The skyline is a jagged cut of gold and white lights against the dark.
I curl into his side on the oversized outdoor sofa, my bare feet tucked under his thigh. His arm is around me, solid and heavy, hand splayed over my hip.
I’m in his hoodie, hood down. Nothing underneath but skin.
He traces the line of my jaw with his thumb.
“You quiet?” he asks. His voice is roughened by shouting over the crowd.
“Just thinking,” I say. “About where we started. The student union. The dorms. The panic attacks.”
He grunts quietly. “Feels like a different life.”
“It was,” I say.
I reach for his hand—the one resting on my knee. I lift it, turning it over in the dim light of the city.
His hand—the one that used to be bruised, cut, stained with ink and blood from the things he broke—is clean. The scars have faded to thin white lines. It’s steady. Strong.
It’s a hand that catches pucks at a hundred miles an hour, and a hand that holds me while I study.
“Every fracture led here,” he murmurs, breaking the silence.
I feel the words more than hear them.
He’s right.
Alistair. Beatrice. Jensen. The fear. The silence.
All of it cracked us.
All of it funneled us into this exact moment.
Me, a med student who knows exactly how to heal. Him, a pro who knows exactly how to protect.
“I used to hate that idea,” I admit. “That everything happens for a reason. But now…” I run my thumb over his palm. “I don’t feel broken. I just see all the places the light got in.”
He shifts, turning his head to press his mouth to mine.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. It tastes like the expensive scotch he had one glass of to celebrate, and like relief.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“We won,” I whisper.
He turns his head just enough to kiss my temple, right at the spot he always goes for.
“Yeah,” he murmurs against my hair. “We did.”
I shift, swinging a leg over his lap until I’m straddling him. The movement is familiar now—muscle memory born in a players’ box two years ago.
His hands settle on my hips, thumbs digging in just enough to bruise. His eyes darken, tracking the movement as I settle my weight against him.
“You’re not tired,” he says, a low rumble against my chest.
“Not that tired,” I whisper.
I lean down and kiss him. Hard. The kind of kiss that erases the rest of the city.
His hand slides under the hoodie, palm hot against my bare back. He drags me closer, until there’s no air left between us.
“Take me inside,” I breathe against his mouth.
He stands without breaking the kiss, lifting me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist. He continues the kiss as he carries me across the threshold, my arms tight around his neck, my legs locked around his hips.
The world outside the glass doors—the city lights, the distant siren—fades into a meaningless hum.
He doesn't stop, moving with a focused urgency that thrills me.
We pass through the sitting area, and then he's shouldering open a door.
I realize he's brought us to our bedroom, a sanctuary of muted light and soft shadows.
He lowers me onto the edge of the large, plush bed, his mouth finally leaving mine only to trail a scorching line down my throat.
His hands immediately delve under the hem of his oversized hoodie I'm wearing, finding nothing underneath.
I help him, pulling the fabric over my head with clumsy anticipation. He sheds his own clothes with a predatory grace, his eyes never leaving mine, dark and blazing with raw desire. In seconds, we're skin to skin, the cool air of the room a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his body.
He pushes me back onto the mattress, leaning over me, his weight supported by his arms. He looks magnificent, his chest heaving, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with a musky arousal that makes my head spin.
I reach up, raking my nails lightly over the hard planes of his shoulders, pulling him down for another fierce, open-mouthed kiss.
His knee nudges between mine, urging my legs apart.
I open for him without thought, a desperate sound catching in my throat as he presses his cock, hot and thick, against my soaking wet pussy.
The friction is excruciatingly good. I arch against him, silently begging for the completion I know is moments away.
He plunges into me on a low, guttural groan, filling me completely, a sensation so overwhelming it steals my breath.
My nails dig into his back as I accommodate his powerful, deliberate invasion.
The rhythm he establishes is slow at first, deep and grounding, a stark contrast to the breathless intensity of our journey to the room.
"Look at me, Talia," he rasps, his voice rough with need, his hips pausing.
My eyes snap to his. In their dark depths, I see not just lust, but a consuming possessiveness that mirrors the tumultuous feeling in my own chest. The connection is a physical thing, a current arcing between us as he begins to move again, faster now, driving us toward the breaking point.
He holds my gaze as the pleasure ratchets up, tightening and coiling within me until it's too much to bear.
The climax hits me like a shockwave—a blinding, body-shaking release that pulls a ragged scream from my lips.
His own eyes close, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and he follows me over the edge moments later, collapsing onto me with a heavy, satisfying thud.
The residual warmth of his body and the lingering throb deep inside my pussy are the only anchors in a world that has just been completely, beautifully shattered.
He was the silence I used to chase.
He was the storm I ran from.
Now, he’s just the home I found when I stopped running.