Epilogue
Ben
Five Years Later
The bell center in Montreal is louder than the Bruin’s Den ever was. It’s a cathedral of noise, a cavern of twenty-one thousand screaming fans draped in red, white, and blue.
The ice was fresh. The lights were blinding.
I stood at the blue line, my stick resting on the ice, waiting for the puck drop.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed, "Please welcome your captain... Number 4... BENJAMIN STERLING!"
The roar was deafening.
I looked up at the jumbotron. My face was projected in high definition—the scar on my jaw a little more faded, the scowl a little less permanent, but the intensity the same.
I wasn't the Butcher anymore. Not really. I was "The Wall." I was the backbone of the Canadiens' defense. I led the league in blocked shots for the third year running.
But I wasn't just a player. I was a husband.
I scanned the stands. Not the nosebleeds this time. I looked at the glass behind our bench. The VIP seats.
She was there.
Ivy.
She was wearing my jersey—the authentic NHL one, not the stolen college one (though she still slept in that). Her blonde hair was loose, falling over her shoulders. She was holding a sign that was clearly drawn by a child, full of scribbles and glitter.
Next to her, sitting on her lap and chewing on the edge of the sign, was a toddler with messy dark hair and my grey eyes.
My chest swelled. It wasn't adrenaline. It was pure, unadulterated pride.
I tapped my stick against my shin pads and gave them a nod.
Ivy smiled. She took the toddler's hand and made him wave.
There they are. My reasons.
The puck dropped.
I played.
I played with the ferocity of a man who had fought for everything he had. I checked a Boston forward into the boards with enough force to rattle the glass. I blocked a slap shot with my shin, barely feeling it.
We won. 3-1.
As the final buzzer sounded, I didn't celebrate with the team immediately. I skated to the glass.
Ivy stood up. She pressed her hand against the plexiglass.
I pulled off my glove. I pressed my hand against hers on the other side.
Our son, Leo, slapped the glass with sticky hands, giggling.
I winked at them.
See you at home.
One Hour Later
The post-game press conference was the usual circus. Reporters shoving microphones in my face. Flashes popping.
"Ben! Ben! How does it feel to clinch the division?"
"Great team effort," I said automatically. "Boys played hard. Goalie stood on his head."
"Ben! There are rumors that your father, Senator Sterling, was in the building tonight. Any comment?"
I paused. The room went quiet.
I looked at the reporter.
"My father," I said calmly, "is welcome to buy a ticket like anyone else. But if he wants an autograph, he can wait in line."
The reporters laughed.
I walked off the podium.
I showered quickly, dressing in a sharp navy suit. I grabbed my bag and headed for the family waiting area.
Ivy was waiting. Leo was asleep in his stroller, clutching a stuffed beaver (the team mascot).
"Hey, superstar," she whispered, standing up.
She looked incredible. She was wearing a sleek black dress under her coat, her heels clicking on the concrete floor. She ran a successful dance studio in the Plateau now—L'Espace Ivy—and she moved with the confidence of a woman who had built her own empire.
"Hey yourself," I murmured, pulling her into me. I kissed her, ignoring the security guards. "You look expensive."
"I am expensive," she teased. "You signed a very large contract, remember?"
"Worth every penny."
We walked out to the players' parking lot. My car wasn't a Jeep anymore. It was a sleek black SUV with a car seat in the back.
I loaded the stroller. I put Leo in his seat without waking him.
As I got into the driver’s seat, Ivy put her hand on my thigh.
"So," she said, her voice dropping. "Babysitter is meeting us at the house."
"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "Date night?"
"Something like that. It's our anniversary, Ben. Five years since you fought the train."
"Technically, the anniversary is next week."
"Close enough. Drive fast, Captain."
I grinned, putting the car in gear. "Yes, ma'am."
Ivy
Our apartment in the Plateau was a dream. High ceilings, exposed brick, massive windows that looked out over the city. It was filled with light, plants, and the chaos of a toddler.
But tonight, the chaos was contained.
The babysitter, a sweet girl named Sophie who was one of my advanced students, took Leo (who was still mostly asleep) into his nursery.
Ben and I were alone.
The apartment smelled of the dinner I had prepped earlier—slow-roasted chicken and vegetables—but neither of us was hungry for food.
Ben locked the front door. He turned to me.
He was still in his suit, though he had loosened his tie. He looked devastating.
"Come here," he growled.
I walked into his arms.
He picked me up, carrying me to the kitchen island. He sat me on the granite counter—a callback to the very first night we met, only this time, I wasn't covered in mud and he wasn't trying to throw me out.
He stood between my legs, his hands resting on my thighs.
"Happy Anniversary," he whispered, leaning his forehead against mine.
"Happy Anniversary," I replied, running my hands up his chest. "I can't believe it's been five years."
"Feels like five minutes. And five lifetimes."
He kissed me. It was slow, deep, and tasted like home.
"Remember when you told me to leave?" I asked, pulling back slightly. "In the attic?"
His eyes darkened. He hated talking about The Breakup. Even now, five years later, the guilt lingered.
"I was an idiot," he muttered. "I was a scared kid."
"You were trying to save me."
"I did save you," he said fiercely. "Look at you. You have your studio. You have Leo. You have... everything."
"I have everything because I have you," I corrected. "None of it matters without the giant who eats all my bagels."
He laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest. "I do eat a lot of bagels."
"It's a problem. Our grocery bill is astronomical."
He silenced me with another kiss. His hands slid up my thighs, gathering the fabric of my dress.
"Ben," I gasped. "Sophie is in the other room."
"Soundproof walls," he reminded me, nipping at my neck. "I installed them myself. Remember?"
"Right. The renovation project from hell."
"Worth it."
He lifted me off the counter and carried me to our bedroom. He kicked the door shut.
He stripped off his jacket, his tie, his shirt. I watched him. The tattoos on his arm had faded slightly, but they were still there. The void. The armor.
But now, right in the center of the black ink, there was a new tattoo. White ink.
A small, delicate IV. And a tiny footprint.
He saw me looking. He flexed his arm.
"Still my favorite piece of art," he said.
"Mine too."
He undressed me slowly. He treated my body like a temple. He kissed the scar on my ankle. He kissed the stretch marks on my stomach from Leo.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Perfect."
When he laid me on the bed, it wasn't frantic. It was familiar. We knew the map of each other’s bodies by heart.
He entered me, and I let out a long sigh of contentment.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hi."
We moved together in the dark room, illuminated only by the streetlights of Montreal. It was slow, rhythmic, and deeply emotional. Every thrust was a reaffirmation of the vows we had made three years ago on a beach in Maine.
I choose you. Every day. I choose you.
When the end came, it was a quiet, shattering release. We held each other tight, riding the waves, anchored in the safety of the life we had built.
Ben
Later, we lay tangled in the sheets. Ivy’s head was on my chest. Her breathing was even.
"Ben?"
"Mmm?"
"I have a secret."
I tensed slightly. Secrets used to be dangerous. Now, they were usually about Amazon purchases or hidden chocolate stashes.
"What kind of secret?"
She propped herself up on her elbow. She looked at me, her eyes shining in the dark.
"The kind that requires a renovation," she said.
I frowned. "Renovation? Ivy, I just finished the nursery last year. I'm not building another shelf."
"Not a shelf," she smiled. "A room."
She took my hand and placed it on her stomach. It was flat, soft.
"We might need the guest room," she whispered. "In about seven months."
I froze.
My hand went still on her stomach.
"Ivy?"
"Yeah."
"Are you...?"
"Yeah. I took the test this morning. Before the game."
I stared at her.
A second baby. Another life.
Joy exploded in my chest, so bright and hot it nearly blinded me.
"A baby?" I choked out.
"A baby. Leo needs a sidekick. Or a nemesis. Depending on the day."
I pulled her down and kissed her. I kissed her face, her neck, her stomach.
"Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"You did half the work," she teased.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
We lay there in the dark, my hand resting protectively over our future.
I thought back to the boy in the locker room at Blackstone. The boy who thought he was alone. The boy who thought love was a weakness.
I wished I could go back and tell him.
Hold on. It gets better. It gets so much better.
I looked at the ceiling.
I had the contract. I had the money. I had the legacy.
But lying here, with my wife in my arms and my children sleeping (or growing) nearby... I knew the truth.
This was the only stat that mattered.