Epilogue Mick
EIGHT YEARS LATER
I walk out of the building and check my watch. Three forty-five. If I beat the afternoon rush across the bridge, I can be back at the penthouse in time to take my wife for a walk before dinner.
Eight years ago, we came home from our wedding in Vegas and settled into married life.
The first major decision we made together was to wait for kids.
Between Mia’s busy job and my traveling schedule, we knew it would be impossible to add a child into the mix.
So we agreed to wait until I retired from hockey to add to our family.
A year ago, I hung up my skates at the end of the season and took a job as the hockey coach at Seattle Hills High School.
In the NHL, my life was about chasing wins.
Now it's about building the next generation.
Making sure every kid who walks through that door feels like they matter, even if they can't skate fast enough for varsity. It's quieter. Better.
Because no matter what happens at the rink, Mia is waiting for me at home. I pull into the building garage, the engine of the truck cutting out with a low rumble that echoes against the concrete. I’m up the elevator in seconds, my thumb hovering over the scanner of our front door.
The apartment is quiet, but not the cold, sterile quiet it used to have before Mia moved in.
It smells like the expensive candles she likes and there’s a pair of her sneakers tossed carelessly near the hallway table.
I drop my backpack, planning to find her in the kitchen or maybe curled up on the sofa with one of those romance novels she devours.
Instead, I hear a soft thud coming from the room at the end of the hall.
I push open the door to the nursery, and my heart doesn't just skip a beat, it slams into a dead halt in the middle of my chest when I find my wife balanced on the second-to-last step of a metal stepladder. She’s reaching upward, a framed print of a watercolor forest clutched in one hand and a level in the other.
Her back is to me, her dark, wild hair pulled into a messy knot, and her maternity leggings stretched over a belly that is unmistakably eight months along.
"Mia McLinden!" The name leaves my throat like a command, the same voice I use when the bench is losing its cool in the third period. I’m across the room in three strides, my hands moving before I can even process the panic.
I don't wait for her to climb down. I reach up, hooking my arms under her thighs and lifting her bodily off the metal frame.
I tuck her against my chest as I bring her back to the safety of the hardwood floor.
"Mick! Put me down!" She’s protesting, her hands swatting at my shoulders, but she’s laughing too.
Her laugh still hits me harder than a body check.
I don't let go. I carry her out of the nursery, past the half-finished crib and the shelves of tiny clothes, and march straight for the living room sofa. I set her down on the cushions like she’s made of fine glass, even though I know she’s the toughest person I’ve ever met.
"You’re eight months pregnant," I growl, hovering over her with my hands on my hips. "What in the hell were you thinking? You can’t climb a ladder in your condition?" God. Sweat breaks rolls down my back at the thought of her slipping and falling.
She rolls her eyes, leaning back against the pillows and crossing her arms over the peak of her stomach. "I’m pregnant, Mick, not helpless." She looks up at me, those blue eyes bright and challenging, waiting for me to settle down.
I sink onto the edge of the cushions beside her, the adrenaline finally starting to drain away.
I reach out, my palm landing naturally on the curve of her belly.
It’s a habit now, a reflex. My hand is broad enough to cover nearly half of the space where our daughter is growing, and the heat of her skin through the fabric of her shirt calms the frantic thrumming in my chest.
"I don’t want anything to happen to you.
Or her," I say staring into her eyes. She’s glowing, despite the swollen ankles and the way she has to shift every ten minutes to find a comfortable position.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and the realization of how much I love her hits me with the force of a physical blow.
"You’re everything to me. Both of you. If you need something hung on a wall, you wait for me and I’ll do it. Just stay off of ladders, okay?"
Mia’s expression softens, the teasing light in her eyes fading into something deeper, more vulnerable.
She reaches up, her fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging gently.
It’s the move that always brings me down to her level, the silent signal that the argument is over.
"You’re such a caveman, McLinden. But I suppose it’s one of your better qualities.
" She pulls me closer, and I lean in, kissing her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then finally her lips.
The kiss tastes like home. It tastes like the morning coffee we share and the whispered conversations at three a.m. when the baby is karate kicking her ribs.
“I’m your caveman.” I remind my wife as a sharp, distinct thump hits the underside of my palm.
I freeze. Then another one. It’s a strong, rhythmic drumming, our daughter asserting her presence in the world before she’s even officially in it.
My chest tightens, a lump forming in my throat that I can't quite swallow. I’ve won championships.
I’ve held trophies over my head in front of twenty thousand screaming fans.
None of it compares to the sensation of that kick against my hand.
"She’s active today," Mia whispers, her hand moving to cover mine. She tilts her head, studying my face with that uncanny ability she has to read exactly what’s happening under my skin. “I missed you today. Sorry for worrying you but I really thought I could hang the picture without any problem.”
“Please don’t climb any more ladders until this little one comes.
” I pull her closer, tucking her head under my chin and pressing a kiss to her temple.
“My heart can’t take the stress.” The penthouse windows offer a panoramic view of the sound, the water turning a deep, bruised purple as the sun begins to set, but I don't care about the view outside. I care about the evidence of the life we’ve created in this room.
The scattered baby books, the framed photos of our Vegas wedding, the way her shoes look next to mine by the door.
“I promise.” Mia snuggles into my side. “I wouldn’t want to stress your elderly heart out.”
I lean back and give her a fake glare. “Elderly?”
“I mean you’re pushing forty and all.” My seven-year younger wife shrugs innocently.
“I’m thirty-eight. Not eighty.” I remind her.
“Close enough.” She teases as I pull her close and tickle her side. “Stop. Stop before I pee my pants.” My adorable wife begs. I sit back against the cushions and drag her across my lap.
“I’m the luckiest bastard in the world,” I murmur against her soft skin. The words come out rough, barely above a breath, but I mean every syllable down to my bones. “I love you, Mrs. McLinden.”
Mia shifts against me, the warm weight of her redistributing across my lap. Her fingers find my jaw, tracing the line of it slowly. “I love you too,” she whispers, her eyes finding mine in the dimming light.
I pull her closer, my chin resting on the crown of her head.
The sun has almost vanished now, leaving the city in a blue-grey twilight.
My hand moves in a slow, rhythmic circle over her belly as I thank my lucky stars for bringing Mia into my life.
It took a little convincing on my part, but getting our relationship out of the neutral zone was the greatest accomplishment of my life.
Life doesn’t get any better than this.
The End