Epilogue
Gio
I shove my way out of the pile, skating toward the center ice where the officials are waiting.
The air is thick with silver and black confetti, swirling in the draft of the arena vents.
It sticks to my sweat, coating my eyelashes.
Miller, our captain, is already there, grinning like a lunatic.
He grabs the Commissioner, shaking his hand, then reaches for the prize.
The Stanley Cup. It sits there on its pedestal, gleaming under the lights.
It looks bigger than I remember. Heavier.
Miller lifts it, turns, and holds it out to me.
"Rossi! You first!"
The crowd chants my name. *ROSSI! ROSSI!
ROSSI!* I reach out and wrap my hands around the silver bands.
The cold metal bites into my palms. I lift it.
It's heavy. Thirty-five pounds of silver and history.
I hoist it over my head, the strain burning in my shoulders, and the arena explodes.
I look straight up into the rafters, at the banner that isn't there yet, and I feel the ghost of the scared kid I used to be finally fade away.
The Rossi name is etched into this fucking trophy. I earned it.
My skates trace a slow circle, holding it high, letting the confetti rain down on me like benediction.
I'm the king. I turn my skates toward the bench, the silver bowl still raised high.
My arms are burning, but I don't lower it.
I carry the weight toward the penalty box, toward the section where the family sits.
The crowd is a blur of faces, but I find her instantly.
Zoe. She's leaning over the glass, her hands braced on the dasher, exactly like she did three years ago in that college arena.
She's wearing an oversized black jersey with *ROSSI* and the number 98 stretched across her shoulders.
My jersey. The diamond on her left hand catches the arena lights, flashing bright enough to blind me.
I skate right up to the glass, stopping inches from her face. The noise of the arena fades. Her head throws back and she screams, a raw, ecstatic sound that I can feel in my chest. Her palms clap so hard they're turning red, her smile wide and unguarded, a crack in the armor that only I get to see.
"That's my husband!" she shouts, the words cutting through the glass.
I laugh, the sound ragged and genuine, and I press my gloved fingers to the glass. She slams hers against mine, the impact rattling the pane.
"Show them!" she yells, her eyes blazing with pride. "Fucking own it, Gio!"
I push off the boards, turning back to the ice. I hoist the Cup again, circling the center line, but the only thing I feel is the phantom heat of her hand through the glass. The money is gone. The name is mud. I have this. I have her. I won.
Camera flashes erupt from every corner of the bowl, a blinding strobe light that sears the retinas.
Three years ago, those lights made me flinch.
They felt like spotlights in an interrogation room, searching for cracks in the armor, looking for the scandal.
I skate past the team box, my grip tightening on the silver.
I catch a glimpse of the broadcast on the Jumbotron.
The ticker below the score is talking about the *Rossi name*.
My thoughts turn to my father. He's probably sitting in some dark study in Rhode Island, watching this on a screen he can't turn off, watching the son he cut off lift the trophy he spent his life chasing but never touched.
He wanted a legacy built on intimidation and backroom deals.
He wanted an heir who knew how to sign checks and crush dissent.
What he got was silence instead. I haven't spoken a word to him in three years.
The phone lines are dead. The lawyers handle the rest.
Then there's Rylan. I wonder if he has a TV in his cell.
He's doing five-to-ten for fraud and embezzlement—the karma finally catching up to him.
He tried to steal my future, tried to leverage my name for his own pockets, and now he's rotting in a cage while I'm standing on top of the world.
The rage I used to feel is cold ash now.
My gaze drops to the silver bands of the Cup.
My name is etched there alongside the greats.
It's sweat and blood and the woman in the stands screaming my name.
I look back at Zoe. She's still at the glass, watching me, fierce and unshakeable. They lost. I won.
The private club at the arena is packed, the air thick with expensive perfume, spilled champagne, and the kind of noise that only happens when you've spent three months grinding your teeth down to the nubs and finally get to let go.
I'm sprawled on a velvet banquette in the corner, a glass of scotch resting on my knee.
Zoe is on my lap. She's occupying space, her legs crossed, one arm draped over my shoulders, the other holding her own glass.
My jersey is gone, replaced by a black suit that cost more than my first truck, but she's still wearing the Rossi 98 underneath the jacket.
She looks like she owns the fucking place, and she does.
My arm is locked around her waist, my hand splayed against her ribs.
"You're staring," she says, leaning back against my chest. She doesn't turn around. She just knows.
"I'm looking at what's mine."
A small laugh huffs from her as she takes a sip of her drink. "Possessive. It's a good look on you, champ."
"Champ," I repeat, testing the weight of it. "Has a nice ring to it."
A woman breaks away from the crowd near the bar—Miller's girlfriend, Chloe. She's holding two flutes of champagne, navigating the sea of bodies with practiced ease. She spots us and beelines for the table.
"Oh my god, Zoe!" Chloe practically shouts over the music, setting the glasses down and grabbing Zoe's hand. "You were incredible on TV. The way you looked at him when he lifted the Cup? I literally cried."
Zoe shifts, turning slightly but keeping her seat firmly on my thighs. "It was a good camera angle."
"It wasn't the angle, it was the face!" Chloe fans herself, then looks at me. "You did okay too, Rossi."
"I'll try to do better next time, Chloe."
"Shut up." She turns back to Zoe, her eyes wide. "But seriously, are you guys coming to the gala next month? The foundation dinner?"
Zoe glances at me, a silent question. "We'll be there," I say, squeezing her side. "Assuming she lets me out of the house."
"I haven't decided yet," Zoe says, her voice dry. "He's insufferable when he wins."
"You love it," I murmur against her neck.
"I tolerate it," she counters, but she leans into the touch. "There's a difference."
Chloe laughs, oblivious to the current running between us. "Well, save a dance for me. I have to go rescue Miller before he starts negotiating with the bartender." She grabs a champagne flute and vanishes back into the fray.
Zoe turns fully in my arms, straddling my legs. She sets her glass down on the table and brackets my face with her hands.
"You did good, Rossi," she says, her voice dropping, cutting through the noise of the room. "You really fucking did."
I grip her hips, pulling her tighter against me. "You anchored me," I correct her. "You always do."
She studies me for a beat, her eyes searching mine. Then she leans in, kissing me hard. It's a claim. When she pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes dark.
"Drink your scotch, Gio," she says, reaching for her own glass. "The night is young."
Chloe is barely gone before another woman slides into her vacated spot. This one is taller, wearing a dress that probably costs more than my first car, holding her phone like a weapon.
"Zoe," she says, ignoring me completely. "I saw the piece in *Vogue*. The spread on your winter line? It's incredible."
Zoe shifts on my lap, turning to face her but keeping her hand resting on my shoulder. "Thanks, Elena. The lighting was decent."
"Decent?" Elena laughs, shaking her head. "It was visionary. That wool coat with the leather structuring? I need it for the gala next month. Do you have samples, or do I have to beg?"
"I might have a prototype left," Zoe says, her voice shifting. It's confident. Professional. "But the wool is tricky. It breathes differently than the synthetic blends you're used to."
"I don't care what it breathes," Elena says, waving a hand. "I care about the silhouette. You've cornered the market on 'power casual,' Zoe. It's intimidating."
"Intimidating is the point," Zoe says dryly.
I watch her face as she talks about sketches and fabric weights.
She's explaining her work with the same precision she uses to dismantle a defense strategy.
She built an empire from scratch while I was busy chasing a puck.
She kicked the doors down herself. Elena finally glances at me, as if remembering I'm here.
"Sorry, Gio. We're ignoring the Stanley Cup winner."
"He's used to it," Zoe says, her thumb stroking the back of my neck. "He knows when to stay quiet."
I tighten my grip on her waist, pulling her back against me. "I like watching you work."
"Good," Zoe says, turning her attention back to Elena. "Send me your measurements. If the coat fits, you can wear it."
Elena squeals, actually squeals, and wanders off to make the call. Zoe turns back to me, arching a brow. "You were quiet."
"I was listening," I say, brushing a kiss against her jaw. "You're a fucking powerhouse, Mrs. Rossi."
"I know," she says, picking up her glass. "But keep saying it. I like the way it sounds."
The noise of the party finally recedes, fading into the background like static. I pull her closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us. Her body is soft and solid against mine, grounding me.
"Look at us, Mrs. Rossi," I murmur against her temple.
She tilts her head, her eyes finding mine. The sharpness is still there, the intelligence, but the guard is down. "We're a mess, Gio."