Epilogue
Second Chance Skate
Nate arrived just after dawn, when the rink still belonged to breath and blade marks instead of noise. The sun filtered through the high windows in pale streaks, catching on scuffed plexiglass and the faded Hammerheads logo at center ice. The same arena that had once felt like a proving ground.
The league had reinstated him three weeks after the finale.
The call had come in clean and official, apology folded into policy language.
The Hammerheads had offered him a contract the same afternoon.
Respectable money, a clean term. A chance to step back into the grind like none of it had ever fractured.
He’d thanked them. And then he’d said no.
He’d made his money and invested it well.
Endorsements still ticked quietly in the background.
There was family money too, if it ever came to that, though he doubted it would.
He wasn’t walking away from hockey. He was walking away from the version of it that required him to be gone more than he was present. The rink needed someone different now.
So did he.
He tugged one of his hoodies from his first season in New Haven over his flannel shirt and laced up his skates with hands that no longer felt like weapons.
The ice was smooth and waiting. Beyond the boards, a group of kids in bright helmets and mismatched gloves clung to the rail like uncertain explorers preparing to conquer a frozen sea.
“Alright,” Nate called, pushing off with easy strength. “Who’s brave today?”
They scattered with delighted shrieks.
He skated backward, arms out as one wobbly kid launched himself forward with more enthusiasm than balance. When the inevitable fall came, Nate was already there, catching him mid-sprawl and lifting him back upright like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You good?”
The kid nodded, eyes wide.
“Good. Try again.”
A commotion near the boards caught his attention as two boys had dropped their gloves and squared off in miniature imitation of something they’d probably seen on television. One small and furious. One bigger and smug.
Nate coasted over, a brow raised.
“What’s going on?”
The taller one shrugged, backing off immediately. The smaller kid didn’t. His jaw was set too tight. His fists balled too hard.
“He said I don’t belong here,” the kid muttered.
Nate crouched until they were eye level, blades angled carefully beneath him.
“You like being out here?” he asked.
The kid shrugged. “Yeah.”
Nate tilted his head. “No. That’s not what I asked. Do you feel like the ice makes sense in a way other things don’t?”
A hesitation. Then a nod.
Nate nodded. “Then you belong. That’s the rule.”
The kid swallowed. “But he—”
“There’s always gonna be someone who'll tell you you’re not good enough,” Nate said, voice calm. “You just have to stay.”
The boy blinked up at him. “Stay?” he echoed.
“Yeah.” Nate tapped two knuckles lightly against the kid’s helmet. “Work hard enough and they either catch up… or not. Either way, you’re still here.”
The kid’s shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Now get back out there.”
He pushed off, wobbly but determined.
Nate straightened slowly, watching him rejoin the others. Once upon a time, he’d been that kid. All sharp edges and nowhere to put them. No one had told him he was allowed to stay. And he’d decided he didn’t have to pass that lesson down the way he’d learned it.
Across the rink, a banner with the words ‘Community Development Program’ hung crooked over one section of bleachers. The letters were peeling at the edges. The arena wasn’t polished, but it didn’t need to be. It just needed to be open.
And in that slow, joyful morning, with little feet and big dreams all skating in circles around him, Nate realized that this was exactly the win he’d been chasing all along.
Just blades carving cautious hope into ice.
Tiny victories earned in moments. Kids who’d grow into their strength instead of armoring themselves against it.
The NHL had offered him everything. Turned out, everything didn’t look the way he’d imagined. Nate grinned, eyes crinkling as another kid waved him over for help.
For the first time in his life, he wasn’t chasing the next shift. He was building one.
Strictly Scandal Online:
From Ballroom Royalty to Industry Risk: TTF Pro Lars Holm Scrambles
The fallout continues for former Take the Floor professional Lars Holm.
Now Holm has been abruptly terminated from the long-running dance competition, the ripple effects appear to be expanding far beyond the ballroom.
Insiders have confirmed to Strictly Scandal that Holm has quietly lost at least three brand partnerships in the aftermath of the incident.
According to two separate casting directors who requested anonymity, Holm’s name has already raised red flags during preliminary discussions for upcoming televised dance projects.
“The issue isn’t talent,” one source said. “It’s liability.”
A representative for Take the Floor declined to comment on Holm’s departure.
Empire State of Mind
The Empire Ballroom Studio smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and the ghost of a thousand Type-A dreams. The floors were a glossy stretch of honeyed wood that reflected the overhead lights in soft halos, and the mirrored wall ran the length of the room like a personality test no one passed on the first try.
Ambition hummed in the place in a way that felt expensive.
The velvet seats lining the walls held the faint spiritual echo of mothers who’d whispered, ‘Again, but prettier,’ since 2001.
New York City sprawled outside the tastefully frosted windows, the hum of the not-too-distant subway and evening traffic softened by the velvet drapes that matched the chairs.
Inside, everything felt focused. Clean. The mirrors didn’t just reflect you.
They assessed, challenging you to become the best version of yourself you could be.
Holly approved. Of course she did. Nothing like a room full of mirrors to keep a former reality-TV menace humble.
She stood in the center of Studio A with her hands resting lightly on twelve-year-old Jessica Roland’s shoulders, adjusting the angle of her ribcage by less than an inch. Because ballroom was a sport built entirely on millimeters and emotional consequences.
“Again,” Holly said, voice even. “But this time, don’t think about your feet. They already know what to do. Think about your spine like it’s royalty. It doesn’t rush. It simply arrives.”
Jessica stared at herself in the mirror with the ferocious concentration usually reserved for people defusing bombs or deleting a risky text before it sends.
The girl had clean lines, gorgeous posture, and a turn that didn’t wobble under pressure.
What she lacked wasn’t talent. It was permission to be inevitable.
But there it was again, that half-second hesitation before Jessica committed to the next step, like her body was buffering. Like she was waiting for the universe to pop up a warning message: Confidence may result in attention. Proceed anyway?
Holly felt something tighten low in her chest in a way that was absolutely not a spiral and definitely not her inner twelve-year-old clearing her throat. God, she knew that pause. She’d built a career on that pause and then nearly let it cost her the love of her life.
“Stop apologizing for taking up space,” Holly said, stepping back and folding her arms. “No one here is scared of you… yet. You need to make them feel it.”
Jessica’s chin lifted. Just slightly. The next pass across the floor was sharper.
Oh, there she was. With a year of polish and the right partner, this young woman would be lethal in junior finals.
A dancer judges described with words like precision and presence and how dare you be thirteen and already this composed.
Holly caught her own reflection for a beat.
Her black wrap top, wide-leg practice trousers, and hair twisted into a knot that signaled ‘I pay taxes and make decisions together with my boyfriend’.
She felt a quiet, delicious wave of relief.
No red recording lights in the corner or producers with headsets and moral flexibility.
Only her heels on wood and counting time for Jessica.
From the far mirror, movement sliced through the golden light like a notification she absolutely intended to open.
A flicker of movement in Studio B, caught Holly’s gaze, visible through the open doors and mirror angles that made the entire space feel like a kaleidoscope of ambition.
Lola Steele.
Holly’d been at Empire now for less than three weeks, but she knew who Lola was. Former World Champion. Dance partner had tested positive for doping and their title was stripped. That had to hurt like a bitch.
Lola moved like a weapon that had taken finishing school. Every extension sharp, every head snap precise, platinum hair pulled into something severe enough to require a blueprint. She hit the final beat of her combination with such controlled violence that even the air seemed to recalibrate.
Holly watched for exactly two counts too long before focusing back on Jessica.
“Again,” she said, softer now. “Lead with your sternum. Your body follows confidence.”
In the mirror, Lola rolled her shoulders once, grabbed her bag and stalked toward the exit with the energy of someone who either won everything or decided she would eventually.
She slowed slightly as she walked along the edge of the floor near where Holly and Jessica were training, eyes flicking between the pair of them as though mentally drafting a competitive bracket.
“She’s good,” Lola said, voice cool and exact. “But you’re letting her get away with being careful.”
Holly arched a brow. “Teaching, now?”
“Sharing knowledge.” Lola adjusted the strap of her bag without blinking. “You didn’t stay on that show to play safe. Don’t let her, either.”
Then she was gone, the door closing like a threat delivered politely.
Holly exhaled slowly, a reluctant but respectful, smile tugging at her mouth. She turned back to Jessica, who looked like she’d just witnessed a cameo from someone with Disney Villain potential.
“Ignore her,” Holly said lightly. “But also… don’t.”
They reset.
As the music started again, something settled into Holly’s bones.
She’d loved Take the Floor once. The intoxicating chaos of live television where one misstep became a slow-motion montage set to dramatic strings.
But loving something didn’t mean signing up to be emotionally commodified by it forever, especially not after the way Sophie had looked at her backstage after the finale.
That smile had been too tight. Less I’m proud of you, and more I’m already thinking about how to use you next season.
Holly had seen the machinery behind the glitter.
The contracts that smiled while quietly sharpening knives.
She didn’t have any desire to re-enter that group chat.
So she’d politely declined to return to the show in favor of building something real.
Here, the stakes were quieter and human-sized, like a child learning to take up space without bracing for collapse.
“Commit,” she told Jessica, clapping the rhythm. “If you’re going to take the step, take it fully. Half-steps are for people who don’t trust themselves.”
Jessica inhaled and moved. This time, there was no hesitation.
Holly watched her cross the floor with clean, fearless precision and felt something warm and grounded bloom in her chest that had nothing to do with trophies and everything to do with legacy.
Winning the season had paid the bills and bought her freedom, but this was design.
A life that didn’t recognize survival mode as a personality trait.
“Better,” Holly called, satisfaction threading through her voice. “Now do it again. And this time, make them regret underestimating you.”
Home, After All
The apartment carried a warmth that could not be staged. It had accumulated in the quiet choreography of two people learning each other’s lives. Light from the streetlamps outside spilled through the windows in amber pools, catching on hardwood floors softened by rugs chosen together.
On the sideboard near the living room, framed photographs formed a quiet altar of becoming.
In the center stood the newest addition: Holly, Nate, and her mom between them at the New Haven pier.
Marisol had wind in her hair, color back in her cheeks, eyes bright and unburdened.
On either side of that frame sat two smaller ones.
A young Holly with braces. A young Nate in an oversized hockey jersey.
The front door opened with a familiar click.
Nate stepped inside, shrugging out of his jacket, the quiet weight of the day settling easily across his shoulders.
He paused for a moment, standing inside the life he had built and allowed himself to keep while he breathed in the inexplicable scents of garlic and Pine-sol.
Holly was barefoot in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove as she swayed to an unapologetically earnest 80s love song that believed in forever without irony.
An empty, lipstick-marked wine glass rested abandoned near the sink.
Her body moved without needing an audience, and she sang while half-mocking the lyrics in a way that suggested she both respected and deeply judged the song.
She spun once, then twice, then saw him.
“You’re late,” she said with a smirk, putting down her stirring spoon.
“By six minutes,” he smiled, closing the distance between them. “I timed it so you’d already be dancing.”
He reached for her automatically, hands settling at her waist as though the motion had been rehearsed for years. She slid her arms around his neck without hesitation. Her gaze flicked briefly past him, toward the photographs.
“Mom texted,” she said softly. “She’s decided she’s taking up paddleboarding this summer.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course she is.”
“She says remission requires hobbies.”
“And sweaters,” he added.
“Always sweaters.”
He leaned away from her slightly, and she met his gaze before noticing that familiar gleam of mischief he wore like the perfect cologne.
“You’re up to something,” she said, narrowing her gaze.
He just shrugged and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. When he drew out the small velvet box, it was very, very deliberate.
Her breath caught, but she was smiling before he even opened it.
“You’re not even going to let me get down on one knee first?” he asked, amused.
“Nah,” she grinned, holding him close. “I already decided.”
She laughed, a little breathless, a little teary, but wholly unafraid.
He took the ring from the box and slid it into place on her finger like it’d been waiting.
She looked down at it for a beat, then back up at him, eyes shining with something steadier than adrenaline.
“Still want your star?” she asked softly.
“Every damn day,” he replied.