Epilogue
Mila
The United Center was shaking.
Twenty-two thousand people were on their feet, screaming so loud that the sound was a physical pressure against my chest. The red towels were waving in a chaotic frenzy, turning the arena into a sea of blood and excitement.
I stood in the family suite, my hands pressed against the glass, my heart hammering a rhythm that matched the deafening bass of Chelsea Dagger.
On the ice below, it was bedlam.
Gloves were flying. Helmets were skittering across the scratched surface. Sticks were discarded like matchsticks.
And in the center of the pile of red jerseys was my husband.
Theo Volkov. The Captain. The Tsar.
He had just won the Stanley Cup.
"He did it," I whispered, the words lost in the roar. "He actually did it."
Beside me, Jax—who had been traded to Chicago at the deadline because the universe (and Theo) demanded it—was jumping up and down, spilling a twenty-dollar beer onto the expensive carpet.
"Look at him!" Jax yelled, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. "Look at the big Russian bear! He’s crying! I swear to god, Mila, if he’s crying, I’m going to make fun of him forever!"
I laughed, wiping a tear from my own cheek. "Let him cry, Jax. He earned it."
He had. God, he had earned it.
I watched as the pile dispersed. Theo emerged, his hair matted with sweat, his playoff beard thick and dark, his face split in a grin so wide it looked painful. He found the camera instantly. Then he looked up at the suite.
He pointed. Right at me.
Just like on Draft Night, five years ago.
You. This is for you.
I blew him a kiss.
The ceremony began. Gary Bettman walked out to the usual chorus of boos, but nobody really cared. We were waiting for the silver.
When they brought the Cup out, it gleamed under the arena lights, massive and beautiful and heavy with history.
"Theo Volkov," the announcer boomed. "Captain of the Chicago Blackhawks. Come get the Cup!"
Theo skated over. He didn't rush. He glided with that predatory grace that had terrified opponents for half a decade. He shook the Commissioner’s hand.
Then, he reached out.
He grabbed the thirty-five-pound trophy like it was made of Styrofoam. He hoisted it over his head. He screamed—a primal, raw sound of victory that echoed through the building.
The crowd went feral.
I watched him skate his lap. I watched the way his muscles strained against the jersey I loved so much. I watched the pure, unadulterated joy on the face of the boy who used to sit on a curb with a plastic trophy and no home.
He had a home now. He had a city. He had a legacy.
"Okay, Princess," Jax said, opening the door to the suite. "Let’s go. Ice level. Don't trip in those heels."
"I never trip," I said, smoothing down my vintage black silk dress. "I stride."
We made our way down the bowels of the arena, past the security guards who nodded respectfully at the "Volkov" on my credential.
We stepped onto the carpeted runner laid over the ice.
The smell hit me—sweat, champagne, and cold air. The smell of Theo.
He was surrounded by reporters, teammates, and family. But the moment he saw me, the crowd seemed to part.
He handed the Cup to his rookie winger and skated toward me.
He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about the sweat.
He scooped me up in his arms, lifting me off the carpet until we were eye-to-level.
"We won," he rasped, his voice wrecked from shouting.
"You won," I corrected, cupping his bearded face. "You were magnificent."
"We," he insisted, pressing his forehead against mine. "Team Volkov. I don't lift that thing without you."
He kissed me. It tasted of salt and victory. It was messy and public and I loved every second of it.
"Put me down, you giant," I laughed as he spun us around. "You smell terrible."
"I smell like a champion," he grinned, setting me down but keeping an arm clamped around my waist.
"Where’s Claude?" he asked, looking around.
"At home with the sitter. He would have eaten the Zamboni if I brought him."
"Fair."
A reporter shoved a microphone in our faces.
"Theo! Mila! How does it feel? Five years ago, people said this relationship was a distraction. Now you’re celebrating a Stanley Cup. What do you say to the critics?"
Theo looked at the camera. He tightened his grip on my waist.
"I say thank you," Theo said, his grey eyes flashing. "Thank you for doubting us. It made the winning that much sweeter."
He looked down at me.
"And I say that the best prize isn't the silver one," he added softly. "It’s the blonde one."
I rolled my eyes, though I felt myself blushing. "You are so cheesy."
"I’m romantic," he corrected. "Now come on. I want to take a picture with the Cup. And I want you inside it."
"Inside the Cup?"
"Not literally. Although..." He smirked, that wicked, brat-taming smirk that still made my knees weak. "We can discuss that later."
He dragged me toward the trophy.
As we posed, the flashbulbs blinding us, I thought back to the girl in the frat basement. The girl standing on a pool table, auctioning herself off because she felt worthless.
She was gone.
In her place was a woman who was loved by a King.
And looking at the silver reflection of us in the Stanley Cup, I knew we had built a masterpiece.
Theo
The party at the owner’s club went until 4:00 AM.
I drank champagne out of the Cup. I smoked a cigar with Jax. I hugged teammates I had screamed at two hours earlier.
But all I wanted was to go home.
Finally, around 4:30, I grabbed Mila’s hand.
"Exit strategy?" I whispered.
"Way ahead of you," she said, pulling a set of keys from her clutch. "Uber is out back. Let’s ghost."
We slipped out the service exit, leaving the noise behind.
The drive to the loft was quiet. Mila fell asleep on my shoulder, her hand resting on my thigh. I watched the city lights of Chicago blur past—the city we had claimed, the city that had embraced us.
We pulled up to the building on Lake Shore Drive. The doorman, Henry, beamed when he saw us.
"Congratulations, Mr. Volkov! Or should I say, Champ?"
"Thanks, Henry," I said, tired but happy. "Keep the paparazzi out, yeah?"
"Fort Knox, sir."
We went up to the penthouse. The elevator opened directly into our loft.
It was exactly what we had dreamed of in that studio back at Blackthorne. Exposed brick. Massive industrial windows overlooking the lake. High ceilings.
And, bounding toward us across the hardwood floors, a 150-pound Great Dane named Claude.
"Oof!" I grunted as Claude slammed into my chest, nearly knocking me over.
"Hey, buddy," I laughed, scratching his ears. "Did you miss us? Did you eat the couch?"
"He better not have," Mila yawned, dropping her purse and kicking off her heels. "That couch is Italian leather."
Claude licked my face, then trotted over to Mila, nudging her hand.
"I’m going to shower," Mila announced. "I have champagne in my hair, confetti in my bra, and I smell like a locker room by proxy."
"Need help?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
She paused at the hallway entrance. She looked back at me. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with a hunger that the exhaustion couldn't kill.
"I thought you’d never ask."
The shower was massive—a rainfall head, steam jets, enough room for two people to lie down if they wanted to.
We didn't lie down.
I pressed her against the cool tile wall. The water cascaded over us, washing away the sweat of the game, the sticky residue of the champagne, the adrenaline of the night.
I kissed her throat, letting the water run into my mouth.
"You were amazing tonight," she whispered, her fingers tangling in my wet hair. "I’ve never seen you play like that. You were a monster."
"I wanted it," I rasped, running my hands down the curve of her waist, gripping her hips. "I wanted to bring it home to you."
"You brought it home," she agreed. She wrapped her legs around my waist.
I lifted her effortlessly. Even after three periods of overtime hockey, my body had reserves for this. For her.
I entered her standing up.
She gasped, her head falling back against the tiles. "Theo..."
It wasn't frantic. It wasn't the desperate, secret sex of the dorm rooms. It was ownership. It was the confident, deep rhythm of a husband who knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to move.
I thrust into her, slow and deep, watching her face through the steam.
"Who do you belong to?" I growled, the old question rising up.
Mila opened her eyes. They were blue fire.
"You," she said. "Always you. My Tsar."
"And who am I?"
"The Champion," she breathed.
I groaned, burying my face in her neck. "God, I love you."
We moved together in the steam, a friction of skin and water and love. When she came, she cried out my name, her nails digging into my shoulders, marking me. I followed her seconds later, pouring everything I had left into her.
We stayed there for a long time, the water running over us, holding each other up.
"Bed," I murmured eventually. "Before we drown."
"Bed," she agreed.
We dried off and fell into the massive king-sized bed. Claude jumped up immediately, curling into a ball at the foot of the mattress.
I pulled Mila into my arms, spooning her. The loft was quiet. The sun was starting to crest over the lake, turning the sky a bruised purple.
I looked around the room. The art on the walls (her paintings). The messy stack of books on the nightstand (my military history). The dog snoring at our feet.
It was everything. It was more than I had ever dared to put on a vision board.
"Theo?" Mila whispered. She wasn't asleep.
"Yeah, Malyshka?"
She turned in my arms to face me. She looked serious.
"I have a present for you. For winning the Cup."
"You already gave me a present," I smirked, running a hand down her flank. "Several times."
"Not that," she rolled her eyes. "A real present. It’s in the nightstand. Top drawer."
I frowned. "The nightstand?"
I reached over. I opened the drawer.
Inside was a small, flat box. Wrapped in black paper.
I took it out. It was light.
"What is it?" I asked. "Keys to a boat? Please don't tell me you bought a boat. I hate water that isn't frozen."
"Just open it."
I tore the paper. I opened the box.
Inside lay a single, positive pregnancy test.
The world stopped.
The silence in the room was absolute. I stared at the two pink lines. I blinked. I stared again.
"Is this..." My voice failed. I cleared my throat. "Is this real?"
"Yes," Mila whispered. She was watching me closely, biting her lip. "I found out this morning. Before the game. I didn't want to tell you until after. I didn't want to distract you."
I looked from the stick to her face.
"A baby?" I choked out.
"Yeah. A baby." She smiled nervously. "We’re going to need a bigger jersey."
Tears pricked my eyes. Not the angry tears of my childhood. Not the frustrated tears of the injury reserve.
Pure, overwhelming joy.
"A baby," I repeated, the reality sinking in. "We made a baby."
"Are you happy?" she asked.
"Happy?" I laughed, a wet, incredulous sound. "Mila. I spent my whole life thinking my bloodline was cursed. I thought it ended with me. And now..."
I placed my hand on her stomach. It was flat and warm.
"Now there’s a legacy," I whispered.
"A little Tsar," she teased, crying now too.
"Or a Tsarina," I said. "I hope it’s a girl. I hope she looks exactly like you. And I hope she has your attitude so she can terrorize the boys."
"If she has your size and my attitude, God help the world," Mila laughed.
I pulled her into me, burying my face in her hair. I held her tighter than I had held the Stanley Cup.
"Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you for everything. For the painting. For the fight. For this."
"We did it together," she said.
I lay back against the pillows, pulling her with me. Claude lifted his head, sensing the emotion, and crawled up to rest his massive head on my legs.
I looked at the ceiling of our loft.
I thought about the boy in the trailer park. I thought about the rookie in the dorms. I thought about the man holding the Cup.
And I realized that none of those titles mattered.
Father.
That was the title I wanted.
"Hey, Mila?"
"Yeah?"
"We’re going to need a minivan."
"Don't push your luck, Volkov," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Let’s start with a car seat."
I smiled. I closed my eyes.
The sun rose over Chicago, painting the room in gold.
The game was over. We had won.
And the best part was, the season was just beginning.