28. Epilogue Ellie
SIX MONTHS LATER
Marzipan’s weight on my chest pulled me out of sleep early in the morning.
I cracked one eye open. She stared down at me with her yellow eyes, unblinking, her tail flicking.
“I fed you last night,” I mumbled.
Her expression said she didn’t care about last night. This was now.
Brashe’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets still warm. Water ran in the bathroom.
My phone sat on the nightstand with a purple sticky note stuck to the screen.
Good morning, Dr. Lundrig. Your coffee is in the kitchen. Your fiancé is in the shower. Join me?—B
Heat swirled through my belly and shot lower.
Marzipan meowed, louder this time, reminding me she existed and was a kitty-girl with needs.
I grabbed a sticky note from the pad we kept on the nightstand. They were everywhere. On the kitchen counter. The bathroom sink. His truck dashboard. My office desk. A paper trail of our relationship, stuck to every flat surface in the condo.
Tempting. But I have patients at 8. Rain check?
I stuck it to the bathroom door on my way to the kitchen, Marzipan weaving between my feet. If she kept it up, she was going to trip me.
“Patience is a virtue,” I told her.
She meowed again, telling me she only cared about breakfast.
The coffee sat on the counter in my favorite mug, the one that said, World’s Okayest Doctor. Steam still rose from the surface.
He’d learned exactly how I took it. Two creams, no sugar. I’d learned he needed his hip stretched before morning skate or he’d be stiff all day.
The instruction sheets hung on the wall above the coffeemaker, in matching frames. My handwriting and his notes filling every margin. Our whole story lived there. Proof we’d been building something together before we knew we were doing it.
I fed Marzipan, who ate like she’d been starving for weeks instead of hours, and took my coffee to the couch.
The research protocol sat on my laptop, preliminary data sprawled across the screen. Patty and I were presenting on the topic at a league conference next month. My name, Dr. Eleanor Lundrig, would one day be on methodology that could change how every team handled soft tissue injuries.
Six months ago, I’d almost gone to Denver to prove I was good enough.
Now I knew I’d been good enough already.
The shower turned off. A short time later, the bathroom door opened. Brashe emerged with a towel around his waist, his hair still damp, water droplets trailing down his chest. He held my sticky note, reading it with a small smile.
“Rain check accepted,” he said. “How about tonight?”
“Tonight works.” We were volunteering at a soup kitchen later, but after that, the rest of the night was ours.
He sat beside me on the couch, smelling like soap and something woodsy I couldn’t name but would recognize anywhere.
I grabbed another sticky note from the coffee table and wrote while he watched. Only if you promise to make it worth my while.
I handed it to him.
He read it and laughed. “Fair.”
“I’m practical.”
“It’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Just one?”
“I have a list.”
“How long?”
“I’m still adding to it.”
“As you should.”
He leaned in and kissed me, soft at first, then deeper, his hand cupping my jaw. A kiss that said we had time. We had forever. We had this.
Marzipan jumped onto the couch and wedged herself between us, breaking the moment with a demanding meow.
Brashe pulled back, grinning. “Your cat hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“She glares at me.”
“That’s her version of a smile.”
Marzipan settled into my lap, purring, shooting Brashe a look that clearly said, Mine.
“See?” he said.
“She’ll warm up eventually.”
“I moved in two months ago.”
“She’s stubborn.”
“Wonder where she gets that.”
I shoved his arm. He caught my hand, threading our fingers together.
The ring on my left hand caught the morning light, a simple band with a purple stone. He’d chosen it because it matched the sticky notes, which was possibly the most Brashe reason ever.
Three months ago, he’d proposed with a sticky note stuck to my coffee cup. I’d said yes with a note stuck to his forehead.
Crim had threatened to kill him, then cried, then threatened to kill him again. It was so Crim it made me want to cry.
“What time do you have to be at the arena?” I asked.
“Seven-fifty. Morning skate.”
“Does your hip feel okay?”
“Amazing. Your protocol works.”
Pride swelled in my chest. The research was going well, but hearing it from him and seeing him move without hesitation or pain mattered more than any data.
“Speaking of the arena,” he said, shifting on the couch. “Crim mentioned something yesterday.”
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“That tone. That’s your I’m about to tell you something you won’t like tone.”
“I don’t have a tone.”
“You definitely have a tone.”
He grinned. “Fine. Crim mentioned the general manager’s niece is starting in the front office next week.”
“And?”
“And apparently she’s…” He paused, searching for words. “A lot.”
“Define a lot.”
“Crim used the phrase, snooty woman who probably thinks hockey is something you do at country clubs.”
I laughed. “That’s specific.”
“He also said she’s way out of his league, and he’s not going to embarrass himself by trying.”
My chest squeezed. My brother had spent so much energy protecting me. And now he’d seen someone who made him scared enough to run in the other direction.
“Is she single?”
He shrugged. “I guess so. I didn’t ask her, but I did hear Mikael talking about her.”
“And Crim noticed her.”
He nodded.
“We should help him not be an idiot about this,” I said.
Brashe’s grin turned wicked. “You want to meddle in your brother’s love life.”
“It’s not meddling if it’s helping.”
“That’s exactly what meddling is.”
“He meddled in ours.”
“Good point.” Brashe kissed the freckle on my temple. “But maybe we let him figure this one out on his own. He’s earned it.”
He was right. It was time Crim let himself want something without apologizing for it first.
Still. I was absolutely going to meddle.
Just…subtly.
“I told him he was being ridiculous,” Brashe said. “I also told him if a broken goalie who thought he was only worth what he did in the net could convince someone like you to love him, he could at least talk to her.”
My eyes burned. I blinked fast. “You’re not broken any longer.”
“I was.” His voice softened. “You helped me see I was more than that.”
“You did the work.”
“We did the work.”
He was right. We had. Together.
“So what did Crim say?” I asked.
“He told me to shut up and mind my own business.”
“Classic.”
“But I saw his face when he mentioned her. He’s interested.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“This is going to be a disaster.”
“Probably.”
My phone buzzed with a text from Patty. Conference abstract approved! We’re presenting in March!
I showed Brashe the screen.
“That’s incredible,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”
Warmth spread across my ribs.
Six months ago I’d been ready to run to Denver. Now I couldn’t imagine waking up anywhere but here.
I’d chosen myself first, but I’d gotten everything else too.
Especially him.
Always him.
“I have to get ready,” I said, not moving.
“Me too.” Rising, he leaned over and gave me a lingering kiss before he left.
I picked up my coffee and took it to the kitchen, sipping it while studying purple notes covering every surface and the framed instruction sheets on the wall. Marzipan wound between my ankles, demanding a second breakfast like she hadn’t eaten a few minutes ago.
This was what I’d chosen. Not just Brashe or the career.
This entire ridiculous, purple-note-covered, cat-judging, perfectly imperfect life where a weapon in the net learned he was a person worth keeping and a woman who measured her value in competence learned she was valuable just for being who she was.
Where a yellow dress could come out of the closet again because hope wasn’t something to be afraid of anymore.
My phone buzzed. Another text from Brashe.
I opened it, finding a photo of the sticky note I’d left on the bathroom door this morning. He’d drawn a sad face next to “rain check” and written underneath: Worth the wait. As always.
I grabbed a purple square and wrote back, sticking it to the fridge even though he wouldn’t see it until tonight. You better make it worth the wait. I have expectations now.
I’d send him a photo of it later.
Right now, I had to get ready for work. I had patients to see and a life to live that was mine because I’d chosen it.