Epilogue
Five Years Later
Michelle
The flashbulbs were blinding. They popped in a frantic, strobe-light rhythm that used to make me flinch. Now, they felt like just another part of the weather pattern.
I stood on the red carpet outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was the first Monday in May. The Met Gala.
The theme was Armor we could afford to avoid commercial).
We were home.
The apartment was exactly what we had argued about five years ago. Charcoal walls. Navy velvet furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor.
And a dog.
Puck, our massive, shedding, goofy Golden Retriever, was asleep on the rug. He lifted his head when we walked in, thumped his tail once, and went back to sleep.
"Guard dog," I muttered, locking the door.
Michelle kicked off her heels with a groan of relief. She walked to the kitchen island—marble, pristine, except for the stack of hockey tape and fabric swatches that lived permanently on the corner.
"I'm starving," she announced. "Do we have cheese?"
"We always have cheese," I said. "It's a staple food group for the baby."
She turned, grinning at me. "You like saying that. 'The baby'."
"I love saying it."
I walked over to her. I wrapped my arms around her from behind, resting my hands on her stomach again. It was still flat. But knowing... knowing there was life in there... it changed everything.
"I can't believe it," I whispered into her hair. "We're going to be parents. I don't know how to be a parent. My dad was... distant. Your dad was a nightmare."
"We'll figure it out," she said, leaning back into me. "We'll be the anti-Vanes. We'll be present. We'll be messy. We'll have burnt cookies and loud music."
"And rules," I added. "Bedtimes. Curfews."
"Good luck enforcing those," she laughed. "If this kid has my genes, your rules are toast."
"If this kid has your genes," I said, kissing her neck, "I'm going to be grey by thirty."
"Sexy."
She turned in my arms. She was still wearing the dress. The silver mesh pressed against my chest.
"Help me out of this," she said. "I feel like a medieval knight."
"A hot knight."
I turned her around. The zipper was hidden in the side seam. I found the tab. I pulled it down slowly.
The dress pooled on the floor.
She stepped out of it. She was wearing silk underwear. Nothing else.
I sucked in a breath.
Five years, and she still knocked the wind out of me.
She turned back to me. She ran her hands up the velvet lapels of my tuxedo.
"Your turn," she whispered.
I shrugged off the jacket. I undid the bow tie. I unbuttoned the shirt.
We left a trail of clothes from the kitchen to the bedroom.
The bedroom was our sanctuary. Blackout curtains. A California King bed that felt like a cloud.
We tumbled onto the sheets.
I hovered over her, bracing my weight on my forearms. I looked down at her face in the moonlight.
She was older now. There were tiny laugh lines around her eyes. She looked tired from the event. But she was more beautiful than the girl I had met in the Ice Box hallway.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi."
I kissed her.
It wasn't the frantic, desperate kissing of our college days. It wasn't the 'we might get caught' adrenaline.
It was deep. Knowing.
I knew exactly how she liked to be touched. I knew the spot on her hip that made her arch her back. I knew the rhythm she needed.
And she knew me. She knew how to touch the scar on my hip to ground me. She knew how to run her fingers through my hair to make me lose control.
"Make love to me," she whispered. "Celebrate."
I entered her slowly.
It was a homecoming.
We moved together in the dark, a silent conversation of skin and breath.
I love you.
I've got you.
Forever.
When she came, she called my name. Not 'The Gavel'. Not 'Captain'. Just Greg.
And when I followed her over the edge, pouring myself into her, into the future we were building, I felt a sense of peace so profound it brought tears to my eyes.
We lay there afterward, tangled in the sheets, limbs heavy.
Puck wandered into the room and flopped down beside the bed with a heavy sigh.
"He knows," Michelle murmured sleepily. "Dogs always know."
"He's hoping for crumbs," I said, pulling the duvet over us.
Michelle curled into my side. She traced the tattoo on my bicep.
Then she traced the matching tattoo on her own ribcage—the one we had gotten in Boston that first week. A simple, minimalist shield.
"Greg?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you happy?"
I looked at the ceiling. I thought about the trophy case in the living room. The Olympic Gold Medal. The Norris Trophy.
I thought about the design studio down the hall, filled with sketches and awards.
I thought about the baby growing inside her.
"I'm more than happy," I said. "I'm whole."
She squeezed my hand.
"Me too."
She drifted off to sleep.
I stayed awake for a while longer, listening to the city outside, listening to the rhythm of her breathing.
I thought back to the boy who had promised his brother he would be the Wall.
I had kept that promise.
But Michelle had taught me the most important part of being a wall.
A wall isn't just there to keep things out.
It's there to keep the important things safe inside.
And looking at my wife, thinking about our child, I knew I would keep them safe forever.
I closed my eyes.
The ice was far away.
But the warmth? The warmth was right here.
And it wasn't going anywhere.