Epilogue
Five Years Later
Cameron
The Stanley Cup is thirty-five pounds of solid silver and nickel. It's surprisingly heavy. It's cold to the touch. It smells of champagne, sweat, and a hundred and thirty years of history.
It was currently sitting on my kitchen island.
I stared at it. The iconic shape, the names of legends engraved on the bands—Lafleur, Orr, Gretzky. And now, at the very bottom of the newest ring: VANCE.
The noise from the living room was a dull roar. The entire Montreal Canadiens organization—players, coaches, management—was crammed into my penthouse, celebrating. Champagne was flowing. Music was blasting.
It was the dream. The absolute pinnacle of my profession.
And all I could think about was that I needed to make sure no one spilled anything on the new rug.
"There he is."
A pair of soft arms wrapped around my waist from behind. A warm cheek pressed against my back.
"The conquering hero," Camila murmured into my jersey. "Hiding in the kitchen."
I turned in her arms, pulling her against me. She was wearing my Stanley Cup Champions t-shirt, which was so big on her it looked like a dress. Her hair was a wild cascade of dark curls, and her eyes—those beautiful, expressive hazel eyes—were shining.
"I'm not hiding," I said, leaning down to kiss her. "I'm admiring the view."
I wasn't looking at the trophy. I was looking at her.
"It's loud," I noted.
"It's a party, Cam," she laughed. "You just won the Stanley Cup. People are allowed to be loud."
"I know. But my favorite part is the quiet after."
"Me too."
Jag stumbled into the kitchen, his face flushed, his hair wet with champagne.
"Vance! Cami!" he roared, grabbing us both in a bear hug. "We're champions! Can you believe it? We're immortal!"
"We're hungover is what we are," I grumbled, extricating myself.
"Don't be a grump," Jag said, pointing at me. "This guy... this guy is a legend. Best goalie in the league. Conn Smythe winner. And I knew him when he was just a sad, emo kid who listened to The National."
"I still listen to The National," I said.
"Yeah, but now you do it with a supermodel curator in a million-dollar apartment," Jag winked at Camila. "You won, Cami. You officially tamed the Wolf."
"I didn't tame him," Camila said, smiling up at me. "I just gave him a reason to come out of the woods."
Jag clapped me on the back. "Well, whatever you did, it worked. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go drink champagne out of the Cup."
He stumbled away toward the chaos.
I looked at Camila.
"Supermodel curator?" I raised an eyebrow.
"The Montreal Gazette called me that in their review of the new exhibit," she said with a shrug. "Apparently, I'm 'a striking new voice in the North American art scene.'"
"You are," I said proudly. "You're a genius."
"And you're a champion."
We stood there for a moment in the relative quiet of the kitchen.
I looked at her. The girl who had spilled a blue drink on my suit five years ago. The girl who had sat in bleach with me. The girl who had broken her own heart to save me.
"Remember the first night?" I asked softly. "When you told me my apartment looked like a serial killer's?"
"It did," she grinned. "It was all white and grey. No soul."
"And now?"
I looked around the room. Our room.
There were photos on the fridge. Us at the cabin. Us in Paris. Us with our ridiculously fluffy Samoyed, Sparkles III. There was a stack of art books on the counter. There was a half-finished puzzle on the dining table.
There was color. There was life.
"Now," she said, "it looks like a home."
"Our home," I corrected.
I reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear.
"I love you, Mila Vance," I whispered.
"Vance?" she raised an eyebrow. "A little presumptuous, aren't we? I don't recall a wedding."
"Working on it," I said.
"Are you?"
"Maybe."
I kissed her. Deeply. In the middle of the chaos, I found my sanctuary.
The party raged on around us. The Stanley Cup gleamed on the counter. My teammates chanted my name.
But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.
She was the game. She was the win. She was the trophy.
Camila
Later that night, the party finally died down. The last of the players stumbled out, promising to see us at the parade tomorrow.
I closed the door, leaning against it with a sigh.
"I think Jag tried to take the Stanley Cup home with him," I said.
"I stopped him," Cameron's voice came from the living room. "It's staying here. With me."
I walked into the living room.
He had cleaned up. The empty bottles were gone. The pillows were fluffed. The monster of neatness was still alive and well.
He was standing by the window, looking out at the glittering lights of Montreal. The Cup was on a pedestal beside him.
He was still wearing his jersey.
I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist.
"Tired?" I asked.
"Exhausted," he admitted. "But... happy."
"Me too."
We stood there in silence, watching the city.
"You know," I said, "my father called me today. Before the game."
Cameron tensed slightly. "Oh yeah? What did the king want?"
"He wanted to wish you luck," I said. "And... he told me he was proud of me. For the gallery. For... you."
"Did he?" Cameron turned in my arms.
"Yeah. I think he's finally realizing that happiness isn't a line item on a budget."
"Took him long enough."
"He's trying," I said. "And your mom... she looked good today."
"She's been sober for a year," Cameron said, a note of wonder in his voice. "She goes to meetings. She sends me photos of her garden. It's... weird."
"It's healing," I corrected. "We're all healing."
He looked at me. He traced the line of my jaw with his thumb.
"I have something for you," he said. "It's not a hockey puck."
My heart started to beat a little faster.
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet box.
This time, it was a ring.
It wasn't a massive, gaudy diamond. It was a simple, elegant sapphire—the exact color of his eyes—flanked by two smaller diamonds on a platinum band.
"Cam," I breathed.
He didn't kneel. He just stood there, holding the box open.
"I was going to do this tomorrow," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "At the parade. Make a big, public spectacle. But that's not us, is it? We're better in the quiet."
He took a deep breath.
"Camila Rose Sterling," he started. "Five years ago, you walked into my life and burned it to the ground.
You were chaos. You were a mess. And you were the best thing that ever happened to me.
You taught me how to feel. You taught me that it's okay to be broken.
You taught me that a home isn't a place; it's a person. "
He took the ring out of the box.
"I don't need a contract to know you're mine. I don't need a jersey to know we're on the same team. But I want the world to know it. I want to stand up and tell everyone that the Ice King was conquered by a girl with a Blue Hawaiian and a heart bigger than the whole damn sky."
He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
"Will you marry me, Mila?" he asked. "Will you be my forever?"
Tears were streaming down my face. I couldn't speak. I just nodded, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him with everything I had.
"Yes," I finally managed to say against his lips. "Yes, of course, yes."
He kissed me back, lifting me off the ground.
When he set me down, I was laughing and crying at the same time.
"I love you so much," I said, looking at the ring. It sparkled in the moonlight.
"I love you more," he countered.
"I have something for you too," I said, wiping my eyes.
"You do?"
"Yeah. It's not a ring. But it's... a thing."
I took a shaky breath. "I went to the doctor last week. For my annual checkup. And... well, I was late. And I've been tired. And craving pickles."
Cameron froze. He stared at me. His blue eyes were wide with a new kind of terror and hope.
"Are you...?"
I nodded.
"I'm pregnant, Cam," I whispered. "We're having a baby."
He didn't speak. He just stared at my stomach. Then he looked at my face. Then back at my stomach.
He slid to his knees on the floor. He pressed his ear against my belly, right over the t-shirt.
"Is there... is there someone in there?" he asked, his voice thick with awe.
"A little wolf," I said, running my fingers through his hair. "Or a little princess. Too soon to tell."
He looked up at me. There were tears in his eyes. The Wall was completely, utterly gone.
"A baby," he breathed. "Our baby."
He stood up. He wrapped his arms around me so gently, like I was made of glass.
"A family," he whispered into my hair. "A real family."
"We were already a family," I reminded him. "This is just... a new player for the team."
He laughed, a wet, choked sound.
He kissed me again. It was the most tender, reverent kiss he had ever given me.
"I need to make some calls," he said, pulling back. "We need a bigger apartment. A house. With a yard. For the baby. And for Sparkles."
"Slow down, champ," I laughed. "We have time."
"I don't want to waste a second," he said fiercely.
He picked me up bridal style.
"Where are we going?" I asked, wrapping my arms around him.
"To bed," he said. "I have to celebrate with my fiancée. And with my... my child."
He carried me into the bedroom.
He lay me down on the grey silk sheets.
He made love to me. Slowly. Reverently. It wasn't about lust or possession anymore. It was about worship. It was about building a future, right here, in the sanctuary of our bed.
As we lay tangled together in the afterglow, listening to the city hum outside, I thought about the first line of my story.
Rock bottom usually smelled like stale beer, vomit, and bad decisions.
I smiled.
"What is it?" Cameron asked sleepily, his hand resting protectively on my still-flat stomach.
"Nothing," I whispered, kissing his shoulder. "Just thinking about how far we've come."
From a sticky blue drink to a Stanley Cup.
From a broken boy and a lost girl to a family.
From a contract to a promise.
Rock bottom had smelled like a disaster.
But this?
This smelled like forever.