Epilogue
Lauren
I took my seat beside Franky in the front row of the Rebels executive box and passed over a virgin Mojito.
“How does it feel to be out of the house?” What I was really asking was how she felt to have left Cammi at home in the safe hands of her aunt Rosie. Franky wouldn’t dare miss the Rebels season opener, but I understood if her feelings were mixed.
“Weird. And I wish I could drink, but I’d rather not while I’m breastfeeding. Maybe I could have a sip of yours to tide me over?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, can’t help you there, Franks. I’m going sober for a while.”
She was on it in a flash. “Are you trying to conceive?”
I shrugged, though I didn’t feel so casual about it. “Alexei and I missed a lot of years, so anything I can do to increase our chances, I’ll do it.”
She smiled. “Well, if you need any tips, from one aging uterus to another, you only have to ask. Though Cammi’s conception wasn’t exactly straightforward.”
“I’ll say.” I had overseen the contract arrangements for Jason and Franky’s baby-making arrangement, though I bowed out at the first mention of the logistics surrounding the sperm donation. Definitely TMI.
“Of course, mature gastropods tend to have more complex mating rituals, which I have no doubt correlates to many species, including humans.” Franky often went off on snail-related tangents, so I was happy to indulge her.
“You and Alexei are a little older, so like snails in the latter stages of their breeding years, your mating rituals may not be as simple. But the rewards should be immensely satisfying.” She took out her phone and opened her Notes app.
“There might be something worth exploring there. For my book.”
“Glad my aging eggs could inspire.” Not sure I’d be taking conception advice from snails, though. “Oh, here come the boys.”
The announcer had just welcomed the Detroit Motors, the visitors, onto the ice; now it was the home team’s turn.
“And here they are, your Cup champions, the Chicago Rebels. First up is your captain, Lars Nyquist!”
Someone took the seat on my other side, and I turned to find Conor Kershaw. A star forward with the Motors, he was currently on IR. Still, I was surprised to see him here, of all places.
“Someone’s going to call you out for giving comfort to the enemy, Connie.”
He scoffed. “I had a choice of the press box or here. I think I can do my best chirping in a roomful of Rebels fans. The Motors hate fuels me and produces my best work.”
“You really are an evil little troglodyte. I still think you told Hot Goss about your suspicions.”
“I would never! Not without holding it over you and trying to get some huge advantage first.” Cue that sparkler of a Kershaw grin. “You hear about Addy and NyQuil?”
“I sure did. A Christmas wedding? I love that.”
“Yeah, maybe you can ride their coattails and renew your vows so people can actually celebrate your nuptials, LoYo. Or come on the podcast and tell us how it all went down.”
“Oh, shush, here’s my gorgeous husband now.”
Alexei was announced to huge cheers, and I couldn’t help myself. I shot to my feet and cheered the man I loved as he debuted on Rebels ice. He raised a gloved hand to the crowd. The same hand formed a fist and tapped his chest, once, twice, as he looked toward the box.
That was for his adoring wife.
It had been a tough few weeks. My husband made the hard decision to place Sasha in a beautiful care home in the northwestern suburbs, with a room overlooking a duck pond.
A week ago, we had settled him in, along with his scary Russian nurse, and afterwards, I held my husband close as he cried, grieving one more loss in a summer of losses.
Then he came home with me—and stayed. There were too many memories at the other place, and with all the work Alexei had put into my home, it felt like his as well.
Tonight the gate would go to Alzheimer’s research, a nice gesture from the Chase sisters who didn’t hold my hardball tactics during Gaultier’s contract negotiations against me.
(Of course, my romance shenanigans had done wonders for the team’s social clout ahead of the season opener.
You couldn’t buy that kind of publicity.)
As the players warmed up, I spied Conor on his phone, texting in a familiar interface.
“Is that Eros?”
“Yep. I’ve been chatting with someone for a while.”
I wouldn’t have thought Conor had any problems meeting women. Eros, his brother’s dating app, was definitely geared more toward people with deeper connections in mind.
“So what’s …” I leaned in. “… InkGirl like?”
“Pretty cool. Are you going to tell me not to bother because that’s how you met whatshisface?”
“Not at all. Sometimes you have to kiss a ton of frogs before you find your prince—or princess. You do you, Connie.”
Franky leaned over. “Conor, any news on the investigation front? Got an ID on Chirp Queen yet?”
“The fan fiction thing? Are you still trying to figure that out?” I was surprised at how much Conor seemed to care. I supposed I could understand Franky, with her researcher brain always seeking the truth, but it seemed like small potatoes for a superstar hockey player.
His mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Oh, I’m pretty close to nailing her ass to the wall.”
“You sure it’s a ‘she’?” I asked.
“Definitely. And she’s not going to know what hit her.”
The next book in the Chicago Players series is:
FAN FRICTION
Thank you for reading!