Epilogue
Killion
The moving truck pulls away from the curb, leaving behind a towering pile of boxes—and one very triumphant Camille. She stands on the front steps of the brownstone with her hands on her hips, her red hair catching the late afternoon sun. She’s got the kind of smile that says, I just conquered the world, and yes, you’ re welcome.
“You’re staring,” she says, not even bothering to look at me, her voice light and teasing.
“I’m admiring,” I counter, leaning casually against the railing of our new front steps. “There’s a difference.”
She turns to me, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised. “Well, Mr. Admirer, are you going to stand there looking pretty, or are you going to help me unpack?”
I smirk, pushing off the railing and closing the space between us in a few easy strides. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pull her close and drop a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll do whatever you want, Dr. Ashby.”
Her grin softens, and for a moment, we just stand there on the steps of our new home, the world around us a gentle hum of distant car horns and chirping birds.
The brownstone is everything Camille wanted—historic charm, a tree-lined street, and just enough space to feel like home. It’s also everything I didn’t know I wanted until now. We’ve been engaged for a year, and I’ve love every second of it. Our wedding’s in June, though her parents are still warming up to the idea of me being their son-in-law. Let’s just say, I don’t see us spending the holidays together anytime soon.
“Think they’ll like it?” she asks, tilting her head toward the front door.
“They’ll love it,” I say, glancing over at the two fluffy cats peering out the room window assigned to them, like disapproving royalty. Ben and Silus—our new cat—have made it abundantly clear they’re only tolerating me because Camille’s around. But I’m patient. One day, I’ll be more than just the guy who fills their food bowls.
Inside, the brownstone smells like fresh paint and possibility. The hardwood floors gleam in the sunlight streaming through the big bay windows, and the built-in bookshelves Camille fell in love with are ready to be packed with her favorite titles.
The kitchen is a dream—stainless steel, marble countertops, and more counter space than I know what to do with. She walks me through each room, rattling off what’s missing and what we’ll unpack first. The guest room, the office, the cozy nook by the window where she’s determined to put a reading chair.
“And this,” she says, stopping in front of a door on the second floor, “is my favorite part.”
She pushes it open, revealing a bright, airy space transformed into her personal sanctuary. Calming greens and soft whites cover the room, with a yoga mat in one corner, shelves stocked with candles, books, and framed photos.
“It’s perfect,” I say, meaning it.
“Your turn,” she says, nudging me with her elbow.
“For what?”
“To tell me what your favorite part is.”
I don’t even have to think. “Wherever you are.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile she gives me is pure sunshine. “That was disgustingly smooth. ”
“You loved it.”
“Shut up.” She kisses me anyway.
The past year has been a whirlwind. Camille’s practice has taken off in ways neither of us expected. What started as a small consultation business is now a thriving center for women’s health. She’s running workshops, hosting community events, and building a network of resources that’s reaching far beyond Brooklyn. I couldn’t be prouder.
As for me, I’m still with the Gladiators. Last year’s championship win was the highlight of my career. Sure, I’ve got a few seasons left, but I know my playing days are winding down. For the first time, that doesn’t terrify me.
“Kill,” Camille calls from downstairs. “Can you grab the bag of linens from the car?”
“On it,” I shout back, jogging down the stairs.
By the time I return with the bag, she’s in the kitchen, unpacking mugs and humming to herself. I set the bag on the counter and slide my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“You’re in a good mood,” I say, pressing a kiss to her temple.
She tilts her head slightly, her smile warm and easy. “I am. It feels good, doesn’t it? Starting fresh.”
“It does,” I agree, tightening my arms around her. “And just think—this time next week, we’ll be hosting a housewarming party with the entire Crawford clan.”
She groans, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “ Do you think Sarah will open every door in the house again?”
“Probably,” I admit. “But at least there aren’t any horses this time.”
We laugh, the sound filling the kitchen and spilling into the rest of the house.
Later that evening, after the last box is unpacked and the cats have begrudgingly approved the new furniture, we curl up on the couch together.
“This is it,” she says softly, her head resting on my shoulder. “Our new beginning.”
I kiss the top of her head, pulling her closer. “Our forever. And believe me, baby, I know a thing or two about second-quarter comebacks.”
WHAT IS NEXT FOR THE CRAWFORDS?
Leif and Hailey’s Book
The Final Faceoff.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor.
I’ve spent years building a life I could pack in a carry-on. No ties, no mess, no exes lingering like bad draft picks. Just me, my camera, and a healthy fear of anything resembling emotional stability.
Enter Leif Crawford. NHL goalie. Human brick wall. Best friend since high school.
He’s the guy who always shows up, even when I don’t ask.
Especially when I don’t ask.
We’re opposites in every way.
He’s calm, collected, charming—alphabetizes his fridge and probably color-codes his emotional baggage.
I’m a documentary disaster who panic-texts from foreign countries and gets rescued from dates with guys who think “baby” is an acceptable nickname for someone they just met.
It worked. Until one tequila-fueled night with someone else blew it all up.
Now I’m pregnant. Back in New York. Living with Leif while I figure out what the hell comes next .
He wants to step up. Be involved. Be… more.
Which would be easier to ignore if he didn’t look like a Norse god with goalie reflexes, rumpled T-shirts, and a tendency to whisper things that turn my spine into hot pudding.
So here we are—arguing over strollers, dodging feelings, and breaking every friendship rule we ever made.
And somehow, the scariest part isn’t falling for Leif Crawford.
It’s realizing I might’ve already belonged to him.
The Final Faceoff is a sizzling, hilarious friends-to-lovers, accidental pregnancy, he falls first hockey romance featuring a disaster documentary filmmaker, her broody NHL goalie best friend, and one wildly unexpected night that changes everything.