Epilogue
June, two months later
Rhodes
The crisp air of the ice hits my face as we skate out to the center for the puck drop.
We’re here. The Stanley Cup finals. We have a shot to win the whole thing. Talk about an underdog season. They’ll be talking about the Wolverines comeback for years.
The last two months have been more than I could have envisioned in my wildest dreams. Monroe is everything.
She’s everything.
I’m brought back into the moment when Beck shoves an arm against me as we get into position for the puck drop.
Callum, Tyler, and JD are ready. Weston’s in the net.
My chinstrap is tight against my neck, and I’m already sweating from the nerves of being here.
Playing this game, with these guys. Monroe in the stands.
The ref drops the puck and the Wolverines are hungry.
I grab the puck and blaze down that ice.
Finn catches a rebound and sends it crashing toward their net.
The adrenaline in my veins is pumping so violently that I don’t even feel the hit against me, throwing me back into the boards.
I’m back rushing the ice before anyone else can clock me.
We’re playing tight defense, but by the end of the first period, it’s zero-one and we aren’t winning.
‘Boys, don’t get sloppy now,’ Coach had warned when we skated up between periods.
It’s a grind, this game. We’re against the St. Louis Blues, and both of us are playing well.
It’s nearly impossible to get a goal in on either side.
Everyone on the team—Jax included—is skating clean, hard, and fast. Tyler takes a hit to the face so bad he’s out for the rest of the period, maybe the game.
I don’t know yet. I don’t have time to worry about him.
But then Beck shoots me a pass so perfect I rip it toward the Blues’ net.
I see Monroe out of the corner of my eye, in the family and friends section, and she looks like she’s holding her breath.
I think I am, too. God, I want to win this for her.
For all of us, sure. But I want her to be proud of me.
The puck moves in slow motion before sliding right into the corner pocket of the net. There is ringing in my ears from the cheers. We’re back on the board.
Fuck. Yes.
The buzzer for the end of second period sounds, and it’s time to wrap this game up, and take home the cup.
There is no room for any other possibility in my head.
Sweat drips down into my eyes and I swipe at it unsuccessfully.
My nerves are in my throat and I can barely breathe.
The game is tied up. I turn back to Sloane and Monroe, and notice Beck next to me doing the same.
We make eye contact and nod. This is it. This is our game.
But by the time the clock is running down, with seconds left in the game, we’re still tied. We just need one more shot. Callum is able to snag the puck, race it down the ice, where Beck receives his pass, and I can feel the win deep in my bones.
I watch the world narrow into a single target. Beck fakes left and sends the puck shooting toward the net. The entire arena is silent as we wait to see what will happen next.
Then?
Fucking goal.
The horn blares, and my teammates pile on Beck.
We flood the ice, helmets flying, gloves tossed and forgotten around us.
Finn jumps on my back, cheering so loud in my ear I wonder if I will be able to hear properly after this game.
I don’t even care if I don’t—the Cup is ours.
The Wolverines are champions. They hand me the Cup, and the guys lift me up over their heads.
I raise the Cup, cheering until my throat is hoarse.
Someone takes a picture, and I know that’s something I’ll cherish forever.
Sloane and Monroe are hugging and crying and I feel some tears slip down my cheeks too.
The comeback team of the NHL. It feels so good that I can hardly believe how far I’ve come in the last six months.
When they’re done with the photos, I practically jump over the side boards to get to my girl. Monroe is there, beaming at me.
“I’m so proud of you. Holy shit,” she says, “you were incredible out there.” I hold her face in my hands and wonder how the hell I got so lucky.
“But you really need to shower,” she whispers, laughing.
Confetti falls around her face and I can barely breathe at the fact that she’s here. And she’s mine.
This is my wife, I think. If she’ll have me.
* * * *
A few weeks later, it’s my turn to sit in the stands while Monroe has her moment.
I watch her careful moves off the ice, lacing up her skates, cinching them tighter and tighter.
Our family and friends are seated next to me, buzzing with energy as we wait for Monroe to start her routine at the Hartford Ice Arena.
Coach, Sloane, and my guys are all here, ready for her.
Finn has a sign he made himself, GO MONROE written in glittery letters.
His new boyfriend sits beside him, having been completely adopted by all of us.
He’s an introvert, so his induction into our very not-introverted crew was hilarious.
Monroe and Sloane sympathized, and I think they’re in a group chat together now.
I send her a quick text with two minutes until her performance.
Rhodes (2:08pm): Proud of you always. Love you.
I watch her glance at her phone and look up, locking eyes with me.
She’s been working incredibly hard to get back on the ice.
This is her first competition. Whether she wins or not doesn’t matter.
It’s not a competition that counts toward Worlds, Nationals, or the future Olympics.
That may come later, that may not. It all depends on Monroe and what she wants.
I’m happy for her to skate in whatever capacity she wants to.
Petra told Monroe the day she went to meet with her that pairs skating was no longer an option for her. She refused to take Monroe back if that was what she wanted to do.
She did, however, offer to coach Monroe again as a solo skater. Monroe relayed the conversation back to me when she got home.
‘If you want to skate for me, it will be solo. We will not be tying your potential to someone else.’
Monroe’s Russian accent left a lot to be desired, but I got the point. If Monroe wanted to skate with Petra again, she’d be skating alone.
I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a huge relief to me.
I’d be perfectly fine if we never saw Aaron or any of the other Nationals team bitches ever a-fucking-gain.
Monroe’s self-worth and her feelings about her skill level were so tied up in those people that I don’t really think she realized how incredible she could still be on the ice without the lifts and pairs tricks.
I went to her practices, when I could. I loved to watch her skate.
Petra would shout at her from beside me on the bleachers.
“Again. Run it again.” And she would. Over and over.
To new choreography, new music. Different skills, at varying levels.
Petra bumped down her difficulty so Monroe could focus on landing everything as cleanly as possible for her first competition back.
And now it was here.
I refocus as the announcer calls her name over the arena speakers. The cheers from my corner—loud, chaotic, familiar—echo off the walls. She steps out onto the ice and I hear the familiar kiss of blade against ice.
When the music swells, I close my eyes for half a breath and mentally send another good luck out to her. We all fall silent as we watch Monroe begin her routine.
It’s not perfect. I can see her legs tremble once, on a landing, and I clench my fists together to fight my nerves. But when she rounds the last corner, picking up speed for her axel, I know she’s feeling it. It. That high she lost over the last year.
She hits the last jump clean, and she’s solid as she comes down and bends neatly into the landing. When her routine is over and the music fades, she coasts to a stop, breathless. I’m grinning so hard my cheeks ache.
She barely makes it off the ice before I’m barreling down the bleachers toward her. I catch her before she can take another step, sweeping her up in my arms. I’m so damn proud of her I could burst.
“You were incredible,” I breathe against her mouth.
“You have to say that, you love me,” she says as she presses her forehead against mine.
“I definitely do not have to say that, but you’re right about one thing.
I do love you. So much, Monroe.” I press another kiss to her mouth, taking my time to deepen this kiss—not caring one bit about the group whistling and hollering around us.
I run my thumb across her cheek when I pull away, drinking in her glitter-covered freckles.
“I really did okay?” she whispers, just to me. “I was so nervous. I screwed up at least one jump.”
“You were incredible,” I assure her.
Our friends and family pile in, trading hugs and congratulations, pulling her into their chaos.
Sloane snaps a picture of the sign. Tyler starts chanting, “Monroe, Monroe, Monroe.” Beck pulls her into a huge hug.
My heart swells in my chest at all of my favorite people here to cheer for my girl.
She deserves every bit of love they have to offer.
She melts into all of them and takes the sign from Finn, admiring his handiwork.
After giving her a moment to soak in the congratulations, I finally nudge her toward the kiss-and-cry section with Petra so she can go get her scores.
We sit side by side and wait for the judges’ scores to come up.
I watch her nerves all over her face. Despite this competition not counting for anything significant in the figure-skating world, it counts for something in Monroe’s world. In our world.
We live together now. Photos of the last few months are stuck with little magnets all over our fridge. The beginning of our love story. Her apartment lease is up in a few weeks, and she has no plans to renew it.
She presses her leg against mine, knee shaking.
Finally, the buzzer sounds, announcing the incoming scores.
She is scored out of six for two things—her technical merit and program presentation.
I had Monroe sit down and tell me what everything meant when I got tired of not understanding the rules of figure skating, and now I’m pretty much a pro.
Her first score comes up. Technical Merit. Four-point-zero.
I can see a brief flash of disappointment on her face, but she neutralizes it quickly. I squeeze her knee in reassurance.
Her second score comes up. Program Presentation. Six-point-zero.
The cheers from our friends and family erupt from beside us, and Monroe starts to cry. I tug her into my chest. Petra looks very pleased. It isn’t a perfect score, but it’s hers. She went out there despite every setback she’s had. She makes me want to be that brave.
“This is just the beginning, sweetheart,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says and nods, tears still clinging to the bottom of her lashes. I brush them off with my thumb.
This is just the beginning for us, too. Maybe it’s crazy to be so sure about someone after only a few months.
And it’s definitely crazy to be carrying around a ring in my bag with me right now.
But it was crazy to meet the girl of my dreams this year, too.
It was crazy to win the Stanley Cup with a team who barely made it to the playoffs.
It’s crazy that Monroe is back on the ice, competing again, with a fancy new diploma on the desk in our home.
Maybe crazy works for us, you know?