Epilogue #2
She asks about my scripts now, calls after premieres just to tell me she’s proud of me, sends thoughtful texts when she sees articles about projects I’m working on.
She and Dad come to Seattle whenever they can and watching them laugh around the same dinner table as Jamie’s family is something I don’t think I’ll ever take for granted.
The easy way they’ve all blended together, the comfortable silences and shared jokes, the sense of belonging that extends far beyond blood relations.
Love has a funny way of healing things you once thought were beyond saving.
“Cyaire, who are you wearing this evening?” A reporter shouts from somewhere in the crowd, her voice barely audible over the general din of conversation and camera clicks.
Another wave of camera flashes pulls me back to the present as we’re guided farther along the carpet, the crowd of photographers shifting and reforming around us like water.
Jamie pauses long enough for another photograph, his smile easy and natural, before falling back into step beside me, our shoulders brushing as naturally as breathing.
A few feet ahead, I catch sight of Jasper waiting patiently near the theatre entrance, his tall frame unmistakable even in the crowd.
He’s checking his phone, probably fielding calls from journalists or coordinating our schedule for tomorrow, but he glances up as we approach, meeting my eye with the smallest nod I’ve seen him perfect over the years.
One more stop, he says without words, then we’re done.
Jasper has always had an uncanny ability to keep me on schedule without making it feel like I was being rushed or managed.
After seven years of working together, we’ve developed a kind of shorthand that allows him to guide my career with minimal interference in the moments that matter.
One look is all it takes before I nod in understanding, offering another smile to the photographers as Jamie and I make our way toward the final interview waiting just outside the theatre doors.
The questions have become easier over the years, or maybe I’ve just gotten better at answering them.
Some are about whatever film I’m promoting at the time, the creative process, working with specific directors, the challenges of bringing a particular character to life.
Others lean more political or toward industry standards and my stance on whatever is the latest news of the day.
Representation in Hollywood, the changing landscape of streaming versus theatrical releases, the responsibility of actors to use their platforms for social change.
These days, though, the questions are mostly about us.
About marriage, about balancing two high-profile careers, about what it’s like to be openly queer in an industry that’s still figuring out how to handle that reality.
A reporter from Variety smiles as we step in front of her camera, her professional warmth immediately putting me at ease. I recognize her, Sarah Chen, someone I’ve worked with before, someone who asks thoughtful questions and actually listens to the answers.
“Cyaire, congratulations on When the River Sleeps. The response coming out of the first screenings has been phenomenal. Do you ever stop to think about how far you’ve come?”
I laugh softly, “Only when someone asks me that question. Most days, I’m too focused on what’s ahead to spend much time looking back. But moments like this—” I gesture vaguely at the chaos around us, “they do make you pause and take stock.”
She laughs with me, then turns her attention to Jamie, her expression shifting to include him in the conversation.
“And Jamie, retirement seems to suit you,” she says, giving him a smile that’s professional but warm.
“It does. I’m just happy to be able to support Cyaire and watch him shine,” he says, and there’s such genuine pride in his voice that it makes my stomach flutter with all the feels.
If it weren’t for the camera in our faces and the dozens of people watching, I’d kiss him senseless right here on the red carpet.
“Do you miss the game?” she continues, her expression becoming slightly more serious, more thoughtful.
His smile shifts, becoming smaller but somehow more genuine. “I miss the guys more than anything. The game itself, the competition, that was incredible while it lasted. But it’s the relationships that stick with you, the bonds you form when you’re working toward something together.”
I think that was the hardest part of him not extending his contract.
Not the physical demands of the sport, not the travel or the pressure, but walking away from the brotherhood he’d built over seven years in Seattle.
The locker room conversations, the pre-game rituals, the way the team functioned as a unit both on and off the ice.
Retirement might have closed one chapter of Jamie’s life, but it never closed the friendships that came with it.
Ridley has slipped into the captaincy as naturally as everyone knew he would, leading the Vipers with the same quiet confidence Tor had carried for so many years before passing the torch.
The transition was seamless, respectful, and watching Ridley grow into that leadership role has been one of the bright spots of Jamie stepping away from the game.
Derrick has taken over as the team’s starting goalie after Sebastian retired, and he’s risen to the challenge with the same determination he always brings in front of the crease.
Sebastian insists he’s busier now chasing Ayanna, the baby girl he and his husband Derrick had through surrogacy a year ago.
Every time we see him, he’s got photos on his phone and stories about sleepless nights that he tells with the kind of exhausted joy that only new parents understand.
Devan still manages to turn every conversation into material for his romance podcast, though these days he’s more likely to talk about domestic life than dating disasters.
He, Tobias, and Lia are expecting another baby, which means their already busy household is about to become even more beautifully overwhelming.
Family dinners with that group are louder than ever, filled with the kind of comfortable chaos that comes from people who genuinely love spending time together, and somehow Jamie and I always end up staying longer than we planned.
Seattle has become home in every sense of the word.
Not just the city where Jamie played hockey or where my career took an unexpected turn, but the place where we built something real together.
Hockey and my career take a backseat to what we’ve been creating, a life that feels sustainable, meaningful, grounded in something deeper than professional success.
Because somewhere over the last four years, the city has stopped feeling like the place Jamie played and became the place we built a future together.
Jasper catches my eye again, this time with a smile that signals the end of our red-carpet obligations. He approaches with the kind of smooth professionalism that makes transitions feel effortless. “We’re ready for you inside.”
Jamie thanks the reporter with genuine warmth and pulls me along behind him, his hand firm and reassuring in mine. I turn and give the camera one single wave before turning away and blowing out a breath of relief, the tension I’d been carrying releasing all at once.
“Ready?” he asks, pausing just outside the theatre entrance, waiting patiently for me to collect myself.
I smile back at him, taking in his face, the way his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles, the familiar scar just above his left eyebrow from his last season of hockey, the quiet strength that radiates from him even in moments of stillness. “I’ve been ready.”