Epilogue
Aleksi
The building is alive.
I'm on the bench, helmet off, towel around my neck, one leg bouncing like a rookie who's never seen playoff intensity before. Except this isn't playoff intensity. This is something else entirely.
My wife is in the stands.
My very pregnant wife.
Thirty-nine weeks, to be exact. Kendall insisted she was fine to come. "It's good luck," she said this morning, one hand on her belly, the other holding her coffee like a weapon. "You've never lost a game I've attended."
"That's because you make me play better," I told her, kissing her temple.
"Or because you're showing off," she countered, but she was smiling.
Now, sitting here on the bench, I can't stop glancing up at the WAG section where she's wedged between Vivi and Peyton, belly so round she looks like she swallowed a basketball. She catches me looking and waves, rolling her eyes in that affectionate way that says focus on the game, sunshine.
The Jumbotron catches us—zooms in on her waving, then cuts to me grinning like an idiot—and the crowd erupts in a collective "awww."
I tap my heart with my glove, the way I always do, and she presses her hand to hers.
Our ritual.
Coach Haynes leans over, voice gruff but amused. "You good, M?kelin?"
"Never better, Coach."
He snorts. "Then get your head in the game. We've got ten minutes to close this out."
"Yes, sir."
I pull my helmet back on, ready for the next shift, when I notice a ripple move through the lower rows behind our bench. Heads turning, voices rising, Peyton standing up and waving her arms like she's trying to flag down a helicopter.
My stomach drops.
No.
Not now.
Not here.
I yank my helmet back off, half-standing, scanning the crowd for Kendall. She's still in her seat, but her face has gone pale, one hand pressed to her belly, the other gripping Vivi's arm.
And then Peyton's voice cuts through the noise, loud and unmistakable:
"HER WATER brOKE!"
The arena collectively gasps.
Then erupts.
I'm over the boards before I think, skates hitting the rubber mat, gloves flying off, stick clattering to the ground.
"M?kelin!" Coach Haynes shouts behind me. "What the hell—"
"Time out, Coach!" I yell over my shoulder, already sprinting toward the tunnel. "We're having a baby!"
The building explodes.
The tunnel is chaos.
Security trying to figure out what's happening. Equipment staff shouting questions. Theo materializes out of nowhere with a medical bag like he's been waiting for this moment his entire life.
"I've got her!" I shout, rounding the corner into the stands.
Kendall's standing now—or trying to—one hand braced on the seat in front of her, the other pressed to her lower back. Vivi's on one side, Peyton on the other, both of them talking over each other in rapid-fire instructions I can't begin to process.
"Breathe, Kendall. Just breathe."
"We need to get her to the car—"
"Someone call an ambulance—"
"I am the ambulance," I interrupt, dropping to my knees in front of Kendall. "Hey, Doc. You okay?"
She looks at me, eyes wide, a laugh bubbling up through the panic. "I think our baby really likes hockey."
"Takes after his dad," I say, grinning despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "Can you walk?"
"I can—" she starts, then her face goes tight, breath hitching. "Oh. Contraction."
"Okay. Okay." I rise, already scooping her up bridal-style. "I've got you."
"Aleksi, you're still in skates—"
"I've skated in worse conditions."
Vivi's already moving, purse in one hand, phone in the other. "I've got her hospital bag in the car. Penelope's calling ahead. Go!"
Peyton shouts from behind us, "Someone film this for the baby book!"
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as I carry Kendall down the aisle, security scrambling to keep up. The noise is deafening—cheers, applause, someone starting a "LET'S GO, DOC" chant that makes Kendall laugh even through the pain.
"You're missing the third period," she gasps against my shoulder.
"This is a better one," I tell her, practically running now.
We burst through the tunnel doors into the parking lot. The cold air hits like a slap, but I don't slow down. Vivi's already got her car running, door open, Isla slides into the driver's seat like she was born for this moment.
"Backseat!" Isla shouts. "Let's move, people!"
I ease Kendall into the car as gently as I can, but another contraction hits and she grips my hand so hard I'm pretty sure she dislocates something.
"You've dislocated players shoulders with less strength," I mutter, trying to keep my voice light.
"I'm about to dislocate you if you keep talking," she grits out, then immediately softens. "Sorry. Hormones."
"You're perfect," I tell her, kissing her forehead. "You're doing amazing."
Vivi appears at the window, breathless. "We'll follow in my car. Go!"
Isla floors it, tires screeching, and we're off—sirens wailing behind us courtesy of the EMTs Penelope somehow conjured out of thin air.
Labor and delivery smells like antiseptic and hope.
The nurses take one look at us and immediately recognize who we are—half the city's probably watching this unfold live on the Jumbotron—and within seconds, Kendall's in a gown, hooked up to monitors, and I'm pacing the tiny room like a caged animal.
"Sit down," she says, voice strained but amused. "You're making me nervous."
"I'm making you nervous?" I drop into the chair beside her bed, taking her hand. "You're about to push a human out of your body and I'm the one making you nervous?"
"You're also still wearing your skates."
I glance down. "Oh. Right."
A nurse appears with hospital socks and a sympathetic smile. "You can change in the bathroom, Dad."
Dad.
The word hits me square in the chest.
I'm about to be a dad.
When I come back, Kendall's in the middle of another contraction, her face twisted with effort, breath coming in short gasps. I'm at her side in an instant, one hand in hers, the other smoothing her hair back.
"Breathe, Doc. Just like we practiced."
"We didn't practice this," she pants, but she follows the rhythm anyway—four counts in, hold, six counts out.
The doctor arrives, checks her progress, and nods approvingly. "You're doing great. We're almost there."
"Almost?" Kendall's voice rises. "I feel like I've been here for hours."
"It's been forty minutes," I tell her gently.
"That's hours in labor time."
I kiss her knuckles, murmuring in Finnish—soft, soothing words my mother used to sing when we were scared.
The nurse smiles. "What did you say?"
"That she's the bravest woman I've ever known."
Kendall's eyes well up, and she laughs through the tears. "Stop making me cry when I'm trying to push a baby out."
"Can't help it," I say, grinning. "You're beautiful when you cry."
"You're impossible."
"You love me."
"I really do."
The next hour is a blur.
Contractions. Breathing. Kendall gripping my hand so hard I lose feeling in three fingers. The doctor coaching her through, the nurses cheering her on, me whispering encouragement and praying to every star in the sky that everything goes okay.
And then—
A cry.
High, sharp, indignant—the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
The doctor lifts a tiny, squirming bundle, and my vision blurs so fast I have to blink to clear it.
"It's a boy," she says, smiling.
"A boy," Kendall sobs, reaching for him.
They place him on her chest, and I watch as she cradles him, tears streaming down her face, her whole body shaking with relief and joy and exhaustion.
"Hi, baby," she whispers. "Hi, Niko. We've been waiting for you."
I lean over both of them, one hand on Kendall's shoulder, the other gently touching the top of Niko's tiny head. He's perfect—red-faced, furious, lungs working overtime to announce his arrival to the world.
"Hi, little man," I whisper, voice breaking. "I'm your dad. And your mom's the strongest person you'll ever meet."
Kendall looks up at me, eyes shining. "We did it."
"You did it," I correct, kissing her temple. "You're incredible."
"We're a team," she says softly. "Always."
Hours later, the chaos has finally settled.
Kendall's in bed, exhausted but glowing, Niko asleep in her arms. I'm sitting beside her in a chair that's too small for my frame, wearing scrubs someone found for me, hair still damp from the world's fastest shower.
The girls came and went—balloons, coffee, chaos, tears, laughter. Penelope arrived with flowers and a press release already drafted ("M?kelin Family Scores Newest Rookie"). Even Coach Haynes stopped by, gruff but smiling, to say congratulations before heading back to finish the game.
We won, apparently. 5–1.
But I couldn't care less.
Because I won something better.
Now it's just us—me, Kendall, and the tiny human who's changed everything.
I stand, walking to the window. The city lights blur into constellations, and for a moment, I'm back on that rooftop, showing Kendall the stars, telling her about coordinates and fate and the way the universe sometimes gets things exactly right.
"What are you looking at?" Kendall's voice is sleepy, content.
I turn back to her, smiling. "Our stars. Still on our side."
"Come back to bed," she murmurs. "Before he wakes up and we lose our minds."
I climb carefully into the hospital bed beside her, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other resting gently on Niko's back. He stirs, tiny fist curling around my finger, and my heart does that stupid, overwhelming thing it's been doing since the moment he was born.
"He's got your grip," Kendall whispers.
"And your stubbornness," I counter, kissing the crown of her head.
She laughs softly. "He's going to be trouble."
"The best kind."
We sit there in the quiet, the three of us, and I think about everything that led us here. The plane. The motel. The tunnel fight. The hearing. The wedding on center ice that made international headlines and had my mother sobbing on FaceTime from Finland.
Every impossible moment, every risk, every choice that could have ended differently—all of it led here.
To this room.
To this family.
To the woman who taught me that love isn't just showing up—it's staying. Even when it's hard. Even when it's messy. Even when the world is watching.
"I love you, Doc," I whisper into the dim light.
"I love you too, sunshine," she whispers back.
Niko sighs in his sleep, a tiny, contented sound, and I close my eyes.
From the ice to the stars, I'd never stop thanking the night that brought her to me.
Some stories start with a crash.
Some with a kiss. Ours started with both—and became the greatest win of my life.