Epilogue
Two Months Later
Nora
OneDate officially went live an hour ago, and between the congratulations and the noise, I quietly wrote a check that means more than any other milestone.
For my mom. For a significant portion of the medical bills that have been looming over us like a shadow I couldn’t outrun.
I didn’t tell anyone. I just sat there for a moment, pen shaking in my hand, and let the reality settle in.
This thing I built isn’t only real, it’s doing what I need it to do.
Now I’m standing in the middle of Porter’s with a drink that’s mostly melted ice, and a knot forms low in my ribs tightening between pride and terror.
The last two months ran smoothly. No major bugs in the final beta, even after onboarding more users than I’d planned. Instead of waiting for the perfect moment, I jumped. It’s the second most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. The first is standing right beside me, smiling down at me.
Miles and Rylee turned Porter’s into a small launch party—balloons, a banner, food, drinks, and a room full of people who know exactly how much work this took.
My mom keeps telling me how proud she is, then immediately turns to the nearest person to explain just how incredible her daughter is.
Miles’s parents, his sisters, and their husbands drift through the crowd, chatting easily with everyone.
It’s… a lot. In the best possible way.
All night, Miles stays close, his hand warm at the small of my back because he knows I’m hovering between I built this and please don’t let it crash in the next five minutes.
Rylee refills glasses and gently herds people toward the demo screen like a publicist who believes in the product a little too much.
Jake pauses mid-wipe behind the bar and catches my eye. “Good job.” He slides my drink onto a cardboard coaster. “Don’t forget to use that.”
I laugh—because of course that’s his version of congratulations. And somehow, it means more than any long-winded speech ever could.
OneDate started as a way to fake date your way through awkward events. But tonight, my very own fake date is one hundred percent real. And while OneDate was never meant to help anyone find love, sometimes love sneaks up on you anyway. And that’s okay too.
What was supposed to be a low-key celebration, home by ten, turns into something else entirely. Someone orders shots while someone else queues up music. Laughter spills into every corner of Porter’s. One drink becomes three, and three becomes how is it already last call?
By the time Miles gets us back to his place, my feet ache, my voice is wrecked, and my head is pleasantly foggy with happiness and exhaustion. And now I get to spend the night curled up against the man I love.
The next morning, I wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet, warm, and maple-y. I crack one eye open and find Miles standing beside the bed, holding a tray like a hot chef seconds away from feeding me breakfast.
“Morning.” He flashes me his half lazy smile.
I stretch and prop myself up on my elbows. “How are you awake right now?”
He laughs as he sets the tray down, and my attention immediately shifts to pancakes, eggs, and bacon. “I didn’t finish a bottle of tequila. You earned this. Last night was kind of a big deal.”
I smile as we sit back against the headboard, the quiet of the morning settling around us. We eat shoulder to shoulder. Halfway through my plate, my fork slows when my body officially hits its limit.
“I can’t eat anymore.” I set my plate on the tray beside him.
Miles glances over, already more than halfway through his own. “Really? I’m still hungry.”
I eye his plate pointedly. “Good thing you still have food.”
His gaze lifts to mine, playfulness sparking there. “Not that kind.”
Before I can respond, his finger dips into the syrup and traces a slow line along my collarbone.
“Miles,” I warn, already smiling.
“Oops.” His grin makes it clear he’s not sorry at all.
He leans down. His tongue following the line of syrup, slow and deliberate. Heat curls low in my stomach. Somewhere in the movement, the tray tilts, and our abandoned breakfast hits the floor.
I gasp, laughing. “The carpet—”
“I’ll clean it up later.” He’s already climbing on top of me, his voice lower. “Right now, I’ve got more important things to take care of.”
And I let him.
Two orgasms later, Miles’s mouth is warm against my neck. I loop my arms around his shoulders. “I’m officially a big fan of naked yoga.”
“And you were skeptical at first.” He presses a kiss just below my ear.
His phone vibrates on the nightstand. We both freeze.
“Who is it?” I ask.
He cranes his neck just enough to see the screen. “Uh. My alarm. We have thirty minutes.”
“To get to the rink?” I smack his chest lightly. “I told you naked yoga wasn’t a good idea.”
“No.” He smiles against my throat. “You’re right. It wasn’t a good idea. It was an excellent one.”
“You’re supposed to be the responsible one. Not the other way around.”
“What can I say? You’re rubbing off on me.”
I shove him away and climb out of bed. “We both can’t be irresponsible. One of us needs to keep track of time and schedules.”
“It’s not my fault. I can’t concentrate when you’re riding my cock and moaning my name.”
I spin back toward him, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, then cross the room and loop my arms around his neck. “Are you talking dirty to me?”
“Yes. And we’re definitely going to be late.”
I laugh as I yank on my jeans—then immediately abandon them for leggings because they’re infinitely better. Needing a hoodie, I open the closet and dig through it, pushing aside hangers until my fingers hit something familiar. Stiff. Khaki.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, pulling it free. “It does exist.” I hold up the khaki suit like a sacred artifact. “You’ve been hiding this from me.”
Miles groans and reaches for it. “We’re going to be late.”
“No,” I counter, dodging him as I clutch it to my chest. “What’s late is me only seeing this now.” He lunges again, but I pivot, laughing.
“If I put it on later,” he bargains, clearly desperate, “can we go now?”
I consider it for half a second. “Absolutely.”
He yanks the suit from my hands before I can change my mind and tosses it onto the bed.
I meet him in the middle of the room and wrap my arms around his neck. “I love you.”
“No.” He smirks. “You love blackmailing me.”
“Oh, I promise,” I murmur, brushing my mouth over his, “I’ll make it up to you.” He kisses me—quick, laughing—and for a moment, everything feels chaotically perfect and right.
We arrive at the rink a few minutes into the first period. Miles leads the way as we slip past clusters of parents and kids in oversized jerseys to claim a spot on the cold wooden bench. I exhale, heart still racing and hair a mess. Miles bumps his knee against mine, and I smile to myself.
Beck is on the bench in his new coach’s jacket, crouched to eye level with one of the kids. He’s exactly where he belongs.
Miles leans forward. “I don’t know much about hockey.”
“Neither do I. But we’re here for Beck.”
Miles shifts his attention, straightens, eyes narrowing slightly as he peers toward the glass. “Hey,” he says under his breath. “Is that—”
I follow his gaze to a woman standing near the boards, hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat, watching the bench.
Maggie.
“Huh,” I murmur. “I wonder why she’s here.”
The kid Beck’s been talking to points toward the glass. Maggie looks up, spots him, and lifts her hand in a small wave. Beck glances over and gives her a brief nod.
I blink. Miles blinks. We look at each other.
“Do they—” I start.
“Know each other?” Miles finishes.
Beck
I drop to one knee in the players’ box so we’re eye level, elbows resting on my thigh.
The rink smells like cold air and sharpened steel—the way it always has, the way it always will.
He’s still breathing hard, helmet tipped back, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and defiance I recognize a little too well.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my coach voice calm. “You know why I pulled you, right?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking toward the ice.
“Checking. You can’t do it,” I continue. “I don’t care if he had the puck a second ago. I don’t care if he chirped you or you wanted to make a statement. Late hits. Blindside checks.” I tap the boards once for emphasis. “That gets you bench time. Not ice time.”
“It’s not my fault,” Aiden whines. “He bounced off me and hit the boards.”
Cocky little shit. I bite back a smile. I was this kid once—talented, aggressive, convinced that skill alone was enough. It’s my job to show him better.
“Unfortunately,” I say evenly, “the ref didn’t see it that way.”
His shoulders slump.
“I know you’re a good player,” I tell him.
“You wouldn’t be on my line if you weren’t.
But hockey isn’t about proving what you can do.
It’s about being there for your team. Making the smart play.
Having their backs.” I meet his eyes. “You get that? Because when you’re in here”—I point to the bench, then the ice—“you’re not out there helping them. ”
He nods.
“Good.” I straighten slightly. “Now breathe. You’ll go back out when your time’s up. Remember—clean hockey. Team-first hockey.”
Another nod. Deeper this time.
I hesitate, then ask, “Your aunt here today?”
His face lights up instantly. He lifts a finger and points across the rink.
I follow the line of his arm—and there she is. Standing near the glass, hands tucked into her coat pockets. When she notices me, she gives a small wave.
I return it with a brief nod—the kind that says “all good” while actively trying not to smile. Because she looks fucking beautiful.
Which is absolutely not something I should be thinking about one of my kid’s aunts. Not while I’m still kneeling in the players’ box, mid-lecture, reminding myself that I’m the adult here. The coach. The guy who’s supposed to have his head in the game.
I clear my throat and tap Aiden lightly on the shin pad. “Helmet on. Let’s go.”
As he hops back onto the ice, I stand and face forward again, jaw tight, eyes fixed anywhere but across the rink. Coaching is the only thing I’ve got left, and I’m not about to lose it over a woman I shouldn’t even be noticing.
Thank you for reading Stout Of My League!