44. Epilogue
Epilogue
Cody
Third period and we're down by two. Fucking fantastic. I didn’t work my ass off for the past four months to lose the championship game like this.
Nope.
Western Michigan can kiss my ass.
No way in hell I’m making it easy for them.
Their center fires from the point, and I drop into the shooting lane, but the puck gets through.
Novotny kicks out his right pad. The rebound pops loose, and I battle their defenseman for position, shoving him off with my hip.
Their winger beats out Connor and gets a wrist shot off, but Novotny sprawls and smothers the puck.
Whistle.
I hop over the boards and drop onto the bench, squirting water into my mouth. Eighteen thousand people in this building and half of them want us to lose.
Fuck them.
Because I only care about my family and the two dipshits sitting in the stands across the ice.
Doyle drops down next to me and lifts his helmet. “Dude, you don't even look winded. My legs feel like jelly.”
“Yeah, well, my boyfriend has been torturing me for two months. Do not recommend.”
When the doctor finally cleared me to skate again in late February—no contact, just conditioning—Hunter took that as permission to ruin my life.
His training plan involved a lot of throwing up.
Swear if I didn't puke at least once, he wasn't satisfied.
Even caught him smiling the one time I drank too much water beforehand and puked so hard it looked like a goddamn exorcism.
Can’t be too mad about it now. Not when I'm the only one on my line who isn't gassed.
“The fuck are your little brother and Trembley doing?”
I look across the ice and groan as Atlas hip-checks Davis, who goes flying into my dad’s side. But my little brother comes right back, jumping sideways, throwing his whole body into Atlas. Of course, my boyfriend pulls Davis’s shirt over his head and fakes throwing punches.
Doyle laughs. “Your dad and Kincaid look like they're about to kill the two of them.”
He’s not—wait, no.
My gaze bounces between Hunter and my dad. “Oh, come on. Why does my boyfriend have ‘the dad look’ on his face!”
Doyle starts laughing, and even worse, fucking Connor chuckles too.
“Good fucking job out there, Henneman,” Nieminen says.
“Which one?” Ryan smirks at our coach.
Connor snorts. “Fucking smart ass.”
Nieminen’s lips press into a tight line. “I wasn’t talking to your husband. Not when we’re still down by two.”
I put my water bottle back on the shelf, shaking my head. “Still weird as fuck that you both have the same name now.”
“Don’t give a fuck what you think.” Connor leans forward, watching the play on the ice. “But nice goal earlier.”
“Thanks.”
It’s our only goal so far. Wasn’t the prettiest, but fuck, if I hadn’t scored, we’d be down by three.
Out on the ice, our second line's getting hemmed in our zone. I lean forward. “Their fucking left winger keeps cheating up. See him?”
“He's been doing that shit all game,” Connor says.
Our defenseman tries to rim it around the boards, but Western Michigan's winger intercepts.
I spit the excess water in my mouth onto the floor. “Someone needs to put him on his ass.”
“Knight will handle it next shift.”
“Why not your husband? He’s been a fucking beast out there all game.”
Connor doesn’t respond, just keeps focusing on the game where Western Michigan’s defenseman winds up for a slap shot.
“Screen!” Connor and I call it at the same time as their center plants himself right in Novotny's face.
The shot goes high, clanging off the crossbar, the sound echoing through the arena.
Fuck, that was close.
Connor juts his chin at the ice. “Twenty-eight's got a tell. Drops his right shoulder before he shoots.”
Yeah, noticed that shit earlier.
“First line, you're up!” Nieminen barks.
We hop over to the boards, Connor ahead of us. My eyes drift once again to the stands. Hunter’s arms are crossed, eyes intense. He nods, and I do the same back.
I’ve got this.
Settling between the hash marks and the blue line, my lips curl up into a shit-eating grin as Western Michigan’s winger drifts into position across from me. “You look tired. Or do you always skate like your legs are buffering?”
He sneers. “Surprised you can still skate.”
“Aww, you worried about me?”
“Knock it off.” The ref glares at us, then gets into position.
The puck drops, and Connor wins it, snapping it back to Knight.
Our defenseman pulls it to his forehand and fires it up the wall to Doyle, who takes it on his blade and drives hard up the boards, shoulder dipping to protect the puck. I push off my inside edge and cut toward the middle, staying just below the tops of the circles.
Doyle sends the puck across to me at the hash marks. I catch it in stride and step over the blue line as Ryan streaks wide down the left side. I pass it to him and drive hard to the net, dragging their winger with me.
Number twenty-eight elbows me, lifting my stick.
“Aw, look at you backchecking. Proud of you.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Can’t. Doctor said it’s good for my recovery.”
He shoves me, but I snort and step around him to free myself up.
Connor has already planted himself in front of the goalie. But it doesn’t matter. Ryan can’t get a clean shot off. He passes to me, and I take it behind the net.
Shit.
Twenty-eight’s right on my back. Fuck this asshole. No way I’m getting hemmed in.
There’s a clear path to Knight at the point, so I pass to him. He receives the pass, walks the blue line, then takes the shot. Connor gets his blade on the puck enough to redirect it over the goalie’s pad and into the net.
I throw my hands up. “Yeah!”
The red light goes on, and the arena explodes.
I skate over to Connor and jump on his back. “Let's fucking go!”
Ryan wraps his arms around both of us, and I pull away to give them some space.
Knight nods at me. “Nice pass.”
“Nice shot.”
Fuck, it feels amazing to be back on the ice. To just be playing the game and not worrying about anything else, including how many points I have. Gave that up since there’s no way I can be named First Team All-American after missing half the season.
Honestly, I don’t even care anymore. I’m just lucky to play the game I love.
Doyle pats the top of my helmet. “Only two minutes left. We got this right?”
“Fuck yeah, we do.”
We head back to the bench, but Coach Nieminen waves off the change. Guess he’s keeping us out to finish this.
Western Michigan wins the face-off this time, and their center immediately dumps the puck into our zone. Their left winger chases it down behind the net, Doyle one step behind. Neither of them gets it in time, and it wraps around to my side.
Twenty-eight shoves me and reaches for the puck.
I pin him on the boards, but he manages to poke the puck out, and their defenseman gets it.
Fuck.
He takes a shot. I glide into the shooting lane, using my body to try to block it, but it gets through, just under my knee.
Novotny gets his stick on it.
Of course, twenty-eight gets the rebound, and I want to wipe that goddamn grin off his face. Luckily, I don’t have to because when the motherfucker passes, Ryan intercepts.
“Aw, that sucks.”
He growls and takes off, chasing down our defenseman. But I stay on him, pushing him wide.
And holy shit, Ryan’s on a breakaway.
“Go!”
Ryan shifts his weight to the glove side, and their goalie drops into a butterfly. But then my teammate pulls the puck to his backhand and roofs it.
“Holy fucking shit!” My smile is so big my cheeks hurt. “Goal!”
I skate over to my teammate, who’s now got an arm wrapped around his husband. Too bad. I crash into them from behind. “Save the foreplay for later, assholes!”
Connor glares, his upper lip twitching.
“Move your goddamn asses! You didn’t win shit yet!” Nieminen barks from the bench.
I pat both of their helmets, then skate away, jumping off the ice to head to the locker room before overtime. I drop down next to Doyle and pull my helmet off. “I need a nap.”
He rests his head back, closing his eyes. “You and me both. How’s the back holding up?”
“Stiff, but okay.”
I take off my gloves and put them on the bench next to me, then catch the goddamn tattoo on my wrist.
Doyle snorts. “Still can’t believe you got that.”
“Ugh, how many times do I have to tell you it wasn't my choice.”
Atlas and Hunter took me to get my first tattoo for Valentine’s Day. Something to match theirs. I spent the whole ride thinking about which character I wanted and settled on Sandy Cheeks. She’s tough, capable, and doesn't take shit from anyone.
But nooo .
Those two assholes blindfolded me. Told me they were picking.
Which is how I fucking ended up with Squidward.
And not one where he is smiling.
Nope.
It had to be one of his tentacles crossed, grumpy-faced stances. Like how is that even me?
The tattooist laughed when I started cursing my boyfriends out. He said I sounded just like Squidward. Asshole.
The corner of my mouth lifts as I trace over the skin with my thumb. Thing is, the tattoo is growing on me. Not that I'll ever tell them that.
Doyle bumps my shoulder. “Need help stretching?”
I nod.
We go through some stretches, Doyle either holding my ankles or bracing my legs. And ten minutes later, we head back out.
Overtime is brutal. Just constant back and forth. Western Michigan nearly scores twice. We return the favor.
But the puck refuses to go into the net.
I even take a few nasty checks. But my body holds up. Hunter, on the other hand, looks like he might be picking out his next victim.
My stomach twists.
Yeah, don’t need to think about that. Though, don’t think they’ve been getting into much trouble lately. Or they hide it well.
Except that thing with Rua a few months ago.
Don’t know much about what happened, don’t want to know. But when it comes to their redheaded teammate, I’ve officially joined Team Ryan.
Twenty-eight pokes the butt end of his stick into my side again. “One more time, motherfucker, and I’m gonna shove that thing so far up your ass your goalie feels it.”
He laughs. “You always this sensitive?”
“Are you always this bad at hockey?”
“Shut up.”
Someone shoots. Novotny makes the save, but another Western Michigan player crashes our net. Then another.
Knight’s doing whatever it takes to clear these fuckers out, and I keep twenty-eight pinned to the boards.
The refs blow the whistle when Novotny covers the puck.
We line up for another face-off in our zone.
Shit.
Six attackers. Wait, that means . . . I look over my shoulder.
No goalie.
One opportunity, that’s all we need.
Connor loses the face-off, and Western Michigan gets a shot off. Novotny stops it, then launches the puck down the ice.
“Holy shit.” I start skating after the puck, but it doesn’t matter. It’s perfectly lined up and slides right into the middle of their empty net.
Goalie goal.
I toss my gloves into the air, jumping up and down. Doyle skates over and hugs me.
We won.
We fucking won.
I turn toward where my family and boyfriends are sitting. And fucking hell, Davis and Atlas are pointing at Novotny with huge grins on their faces. Can’t blame them.
But Hunter looks at me and his smile—fuck— his smile nearly does me in. My throat tightens, and I wave at him.
No idea what next year's going to look like. Connor, Novotny, and Knight will be gone. That's three of our best players just . . . poof .
Sucks.
But also means spots open up. And maybe I’ll get the C on my jersey.
Either way, I'll definitely be kicking Atlas's ass on the ice, and then get punished by Hunter for it later.
That's what happens when you date your two insane rivals. But I wouldn’t change a damn thing.
Because I chose them.
And they chose me.