Epilogue - Seven Years Later
Cassy
I f you’d told me seven years ago that I’d be sitting here actually crying over my father in public…I probably would’ve laughed in your face and poured another glass of wine. But here we are.
The Club Lexus at the Aces’ Silver State Arena doesn’t look like itself tonight. It’s been transformed. Everything’s draped in black and gold like we’re at some luxury coronation.
Huge banners hang from the walls, each one marking another milestone of my father’s twenty-two-year legacy with the Las Vegas Aces.
They’ve got him mid-shout on one, mid-fist-pump on another. There’s even one where he’s grinning, which had to be a miracle to catch on camera because that man scowled through most of my childhood.
Golden accents glow from above, warm lighting reflecting off polished tables and glittering wine glasses. The scent of seared steak and garlic-butter shrimp blends with the bite of whiskey being poured at the bar.
Most of the guests have designated seats, big-name execs, current players, and VIP sponsors who donated just enough to feel important.
Mikey and Calam, along with the rest of the media, linger near the press zone, some perched with tablets and mics, others gossiping by the wall like it’s high school prom for sports journalism.
Then there’s the arena staff, dressed up for once, drinking like we don’t all have emails to answer in the morning.
My Dad, Coach McCallum, King of the Ice, Destroyer of Refs, and Official Terrifier of Men, is seated right up front. At the VIP table.
Blake’s beside him. He’s assistant Coach now, which still feels weird to say out loud. He’s got that unreadable thing going on, like he’s watching everything but reacting to nothing.
Dad isn’t speaking much either. Just nodding along to whoever’s trying to talk to him. All that booming swagger he’s known for? Gone. What’s left is... a little lost, if I’m honest.
He glances over at me.
It hits like a puck to the chest. A lump appears in my throat. I swallow hard. He takes a sip of whatever’s in that crystal glass, his eyes roaming the space around him.
The faces. The history. The weight of it all is pressing in on him from every direction. And the guests know it. There’s this hum in the air, anticipation is strung tight across the room.
Riley leans toward me, still going off about vacation time. “I’m not asking to be off for a month, I just want three days in Cabo. Three!”
Valerie lifts her wine glass, unimpressed. “You picked the week of preseason interviews. Again.”
“It’s the cheapest time to go!” Riley hisses.
I tune them out and scan the room.
Former Aces players are everywhere. Peters, Jett, McAvoy, Bishy, Brody, Vasko, Monty, Davis, hell, even the ones who swore they’d never set foot in Vegas again are here, laughing with the rookies, trading stories that absolutely do not belong in any official archive.
Mariana’s at our table, whispering something to Amanda from the med team while Dr. Peugeot sips on what looks very much like a large brandy.
Over at the kids’ table, things are surprisingly calm. Chloe, six and already too pretty for my sanity, sits next to Cory, Brody, and Mariana’s seven-year-old, and a load of other kids.
They’re covered in jelly and half-smeared ice cream. The other kids have followed suit, and my in-laws, Susan and Bill, the brave grandparents supervising them, are doing their best to pretend like everything is totally under control.
Susan’s smiling like she’s in her element. Bill is staring at a spoon like he wants it to turn into a remote control so he can disappear.
The nostalgia’s thick now. People are hugging more than usual and laughing a little louder. Even the media team looks sentimental, and we’re usually allergic to that kind of thing. It feels like the last game of a Stanley Cup final but without the stress rash.
Suddenly, the lights start dimming.
Conversations trail off. Glasses are set down. Heads turn.
A single spotlight hits the stage, bathing it in gold.
The familiar rumble of the Aces’ intro music starts low, curling around the room like smoke before a storm.
It’s the sound that normally signals war on ice. But tonight, it’s reverent. Soft. Almost like it knows it’s saying goodbye.
There’s a murmur, whispers of “remember when” and “God, he was terrifying.” I catch one of the trainers dabbing at his eyes. Players, big, grown men, are pretending not to get emotional. It's sweet. Kind of pathetic. I love it.
And then—
The MC steps into the spotlight.
Tom O’Connor.
Of course, it’s Tom. Silver fox, five-time Emmy winner, and the only man alive who can wear a pocket square without looking like he borrowed it from a magician.
He’s got that magnetic grin already loaded and aimed at the crowd, the kind of energy that turns any gathering into a real damn event.
“Good evening, Las Vegas,” Tom's voice booms smooth as velvet and twice as showy. “It’s a rare thing, what we’re all a part of tonight. Twenty-two years. Twenty-two damn seasons.”
He pauses and lets the room swell with appreciation. “We’re here not just to say farewell, but to say thank you. To a man who built this franchise from grit and stubbornness and a complete disregard for blood pressure medication.”
Laughter bubbles up. Blake smirks next to Dad, who’s trying not to smile but absolutely failing.
Tom paces slightly, holding the mic like he was born with it in hand. “Coach McCullum —he’s been more than a coach. He’s been a leader, a mentor, a lunatic with a clipboard, and sometimes…a father figure. For some of us, literally.”
Riley makes a dramatic fake swipe at her eyes next to me. I jab her with my elbow.
Tom looks over to the VIP table. “McCullum’s passion, his insane work ethic, and the fact that he could terrify an entire locker room with one eyebrow raise is the stuff of legend. He didn’t just build a team. He built a culture. A legacy. And tonight, we celebrate that.”
Applause swells. Tom holds up a hand, motioning toward the stage’s edge.
“And now, to present a special tribute, please welcome the Aces’ chairman, Randall Vaught.”
Randall steps forward like the universe just adjusted its spine. He’s tall and trim in an expensive suit, and the expression of a man who probably drinks his coffee black and files lawsuits for fun.
He grips the mic like it personally owes him money.
“Thank you, Tom.” His voice cuts cleanly through the room. “Tonight is about honoring a man who’s been the backbone of this organization for over two decades. A man who led this team to glory and kept them there. McCullum, would you join me on stage, please?”
There’s a pause. My dad hesitates, just for a second. Then he stands. No swagger. Just takes quiet, heavy steps to the stage.
Randall continues, “On behalf of the entire organization, we present you with this—”
He opens a sleek black case. Inside, glinting under the spotlight: a golden-plated replica of Coach’s first championship ring.
“And this,” he gestures to a staffer, who steps forward with a framed jersey. Black, silver & red with bold white letters: McCallum 22.
The applause explodes, and Dad takes the mic. Then blinks. “I didn’t think I’d cry tonight,” he starts, which already sounds like a lie. “But then again, I didn’t think I’d still be standing after coaching some of these guys through puberty, either.”
Laughter erupts, loud and sharp.
“I’ve been lucky. To work with players who never stopped fighting. Staff who showed up, every damn day. And to see this city become home, not just to me, but to something much bigger than me. We built something here. Together.”
He stops and breathes in through his nose. “Now I get to go fishing with Brody. Maybe.”
The place erupts. Standing ovation. Flashes from cameras slice through the darkened room.
I look over and Blake is clapping hard, saying something to the other coaches that I can’t hear, but I see Dad sit down, a little stunned, as people come up to pat him on the back, say things like “hell of a run” and “no one’ll fill your shoes. ”
I slide out of my seat and make a beeline across the floor, ducking around waiters and brushing past a media crew trying to film someone mid-toast. Chloe’s face is a jelly crime scene. I wipe it clean in two swipes.
“Mommy, I had two bowls of ice cream,” she tells me, thrilled.
“Yeah, I can see that, Picasso.”
I straighten up and look across the room. Dad's trying to keep up with four conversations at once and losing all of them. I glance, instinctively, at Blake. He sees me looking.
Dad rises as I get close, and I wrap my arms around him. Tight. No words. Just that feeling. That massive, hollow warmth that only comes when you know something is over, and it mattered.
Then—
Randall Vaught steps back up. He raises one hand. Not a showy gesture. Just enough. The room quiets like someone threw a blanket over the crowd.
“There’s one more thing,” he says, steady. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is, of course, about honoring the legacy of one of the greatest coaches the NHL has ever known.” He pauses. “But with every transition, there comes the question: What comes next? Who will carry this torch forward?”
A ripple moves through the guests like someone shifted the gravity in the room.
“I won’t drag this out. After long discussions with our board, extensive deliberation, and careful thought about the future of this team, we’ve reached a decision. The next head coach of the Las Vegas Aces will be…”
A silence swallows us whole.
“Brody Mason.”
A whole second. Nothing.
Then—
Heads whip around. All eyes land on Brody, who’s mid-sip of something probably alcoholic and extremely earned.
Bishy cackles. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” and smacks Brody’s shoulder.
McAvoy laughs so hard he nearly tips his chair. Reporters leap to their feet. Phones are up and cameras zoom.
Brody just stands there, his mouth parted in disbelief. Then he lifts both hands in a what the hell just happened shrug and starts laughing, loudly, the kind of laugh that says I absolutely did not expect this today.
Randall grins. “I’d say you might want to make your way up here, Coach Mason.”
The whole room jolts awake. Electric.
Brody steps up, adjusting his jacket like he’s not sure it still fits. “Well,” he glances over at Dad. “Guess we should cancel that fishing trip then.”
Laughter reverberates around the room again.
“In all seriousness. I learned from the best. I’m standing here because McCullum believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
He made me better. He made all of us better.
I’ll do my best to keep this team worthy of everything he built.
And I promise not to break too much along the way, following in his footsteps, which, believe me, won't be easy.”
More applause.
When Brody steps off stage, he goes straight up to Dad. They exchange a firm handshake. A few quiet words. Then he turns to Blake.
Blake rises, no hesitation, and they collide in a man-hug that somehow morphs into a half-wrestle that nearly knocks over a nearby chair.
“Still got weak legs, Mason,” Blake taunts.
“Tell your biceps to shut up, Mitchell,” Brody fires back.
Now the party’s fully shifted gears. People are back to drinking, eating, and gossiping. The kids are somehow stickier. The bar is louder.
I head toward it.
I need alcohol. Lots!
“Thought I’d find you here,” Riley says, sliding in next to me like a smug little shadow.
She flags the bartender. “Two white wines, please?”
“You serious?” I glare at Riley, then the bartender. “Make that two large whiskeys. Neat. Don’t look at me like that, it’s a celebration.” Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dad playing with Chloe and Cory.
The bartender slides two glasses over. I pick mine up, clink it with Riley’s, and take an extremely large gulp.
That’s when I see this guy with a shirt buttoned right up to the collar, approaching me.
“Hey, sweetheart, wanna drink?” He leans on the bar and gives me the kind of smirk that would probably work on girls who hadn’t just had their kid’s slime in their hair a few hours ago.
“Umm… nope.” I take another long sip of my drink without even looking at him, already pivoting back toward Riley.
“Oh, come on,” he drawls, shifting closer. “Don’t be like that.”
Before I can even muster a fuck off, Blake’s voice cuts through the noise behind me, slicing clean and low. “You’re Randall Vaught’s cousin, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well,” Blake’s got a smug look on his face. “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but she’s taken.”
And just like that, my whole damn body reacts. I turn, and yep, there he is, with that mark from earlier, near his collarbone, lipstick. Mine. Oops. Don’t care.
The guy beside me, Mr. Button-Up wanna-be chairman, immediately pales. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize.”
Blake doesn’t even glance at him again. Dismisses him like he doesn’t exist. He’s looking at me. Just me. Like he always does. Like he always has.
“Seven years together,” I say, lifting a brow. “A whirlwind of a kid later, and you still get jealous?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Not jealous.” He picks me up and kisses me, grinning against my lips. “Just reminding everyone you’re the best bet I ever made.”