35. Epilogue A Year Later #3
Mitch snorted. “It wasn’t even on my alternate-universe bingo card that I’d be buying picture books and getting calls from my ex-wife to babysit.”
That had taken time. Therapy. Some hard truths.
A very public dressing-down from Kayla and Kira when Mitch had been pissy at a team cookout and made the tragic mistake of thinking they would let him get away with it.
Now, he and Zoey could sit on opposite ends of a couch at a birthday party and argue about hockey stats without a single barb about the past. He babysat Nika and brought her weird European snacks and taught her words in Finnish she absolutely should not repeat at daycare.
He still made mistakes.
So did Ilya.
They were both still here.
On the bench, pucks tapped against wood in a muted rhythm as Madison hit the final line and the crowd roared.
Nika yelled something incomprehensible and clapped wildly, one little palm slapping against the glass so enthusiastically it left a print.
Zoey laughed, eyes shining, and wiped the smudge away with the cuff of her hoodie. Then, as if she felt his attention, she looked up.
Their eyes met over the chaos. Over kids and dogs and teammates and exes and everything.
Her smile was small and full and devastating.
In it, he saw everything they had clawed their way toward in the last year.
The nights up with a nocturnal baby and the early mornings at the rink anyway.
The hard conversations with the foster team, mapping out their actual capacity instead of the fantasy version where love magically made schedules, trauma, and exhaustion irrelevant.
The applications they’d filled out to become respite providers for older teens instead of clinging to one specific picture of family.
The day Madison asked, voice shaking, if they meant it when they said she could always come back, even if she screwed up.
The way Zoey hugged her so tight she squeaked.
The group texts labeled PARENTING EMERGENCY HELP?
? with Ty, Ashley, Kayla, Kira, and, horrifyingly, Tommy weighing in on everything from fevers to safe poop colors.
The way Deke curled up on the floor between Nika’s crib and the door, a silent, furry security system.
He hadn’t stopped being captain. He hadn’t stopped being a brother. He just stopped doing it alone.
He nodded to Zoey, a small dip of his chin that said everything words couldn’t in that moment. I love you. We did it. We’re still doing it.
She nodded back, eyes bright.
Madison’s last note hung in the air and broke like a wave over them.
The crowd exploded.
Madison grinned, cheeks flushed, and gave a quick, awkward little bow before retreating down the carpet.
Ty poked him with his stick him. “Don’t cry, old man.”
“Too late,” Tommy sniffed loudly. “I’m a mess.”
“Shut up,” Jason said, elbowing him.
The officials skated to their positions.
Game time.
Ilya settled his helmet back on and clipped the strap. The familiar weight pressed against his jaw. He shoved his gloves on, the tight squeeze grounding.
He stepped over the boards, blades biting clean into the fresh surface. As he cut a slow arc toward his starting position, he looked toward the glass one more time.
Zoey had Nika on her hip now. Kira and Kayla flanked her like bookends. Deke sat at their feet on the other side of the rail, tongue lolling, jersey askew.
Madison had taken a seat right behind Zoey, still in uniform, arms folded loosely, back straight. When he caught her eye, she gave him a tiny nod that looked a lot like approval.
His world. Messy. Loud. Imperfect. Whole.
The puck dropped.
He pushed off, legs strong, heart steady, life fuller than he ever dared to let himself imagine.
For the first time since he’d laced up skates as a kid on a beat-up pond, he wasn’t playing to get away from something.
He was playing for something. For family, chosen and fought for.
For the woman who walked into a foster home and decided to build something better than what she’d been given.
For the kids who now had trading cards that said more than their case numbers.
For the dog who dragged herself bleeding into the shadow of his truck and still believed humans were worth trusting.
For a life that didn’t require him to choose between the C on his chest and the people in his arms.
He skated into the play, into the noise, into whatever came next. And smiled.