EPILOGUE
HALEY
Six months later, and the press box still ran cold enough to need a jacket.
Some things had changed. The nameplate on my office door now read, “Director of Video Analysis” instead of just my name. Mark reported to me instead of working beside me. I could leave early to cook dinner for my fiancé without anyone side-eyeing my commitment.
Tonight wasn’t an early night.
The arena was packed for a late-season game that mattered more than most. A win tonight would clinch a playoff spot. If we lost, we’d have to fight for it over the final three games.
The pressure showed on the ice during warm-ups. My father stood behind the bench, his arms folded across his chest, watching everything intently.
Tolrek took his position with the first line, and six months hadn’t made watching him any less complicated.
The professional part of me tracked his movements and logged them.
The woman who’d woken up next to him this morning noticed the way he skated across the ice with a confidence that had become second nature.
My father had handled the announcement the morning after our conversation, standing in front of the team and laying out the situation with the same directness he brought to tactical discussions.
“Haley and Tolrek are in a relationship,” he’d said. “This doesn’t affect how we operate as a team. She’s still your video analyst, though now your Director of Video Analysis, and he’s still a first-line defenseman. Any questions?”
Brashe’s hand shot up before my father finished speaking.
“What?” Dad’s tone suggested he was already regretting this approach.
“I just want it on record that I called this weeks ago.” Brashe’s grin held smug satisfaction. “Crim owes me fifty dollars.”
Laughter rang through the room. Crim threw a puck at Brashe’s head. Mikael wolf-whistled until one of the assistant coaches told him to knock it off.
My face burned hot enough to melt ice, but Tolrek’s hand found mine under the table we sat behind.
“Any actual questions?” my father asked, but he was fighting a smile.
No one else raised their hands.
“Good. Get out of here. Practice in twenty.”
The team filed out, players clapping Tolrek on the shoulder as they passed. A few nodded at me, and I found respect in the gesture.
Brashe had been insufferable about his win for two weeks until Tolrek threatened to check him into next Tuesday.
Living together had been Tolrek’s idea, though he’d framed it as a practical suggestion.
“My lease is up next month,” Tolrek had said one morning over coffee, his tone too casual to be casual. “Your place is bigger.”
“That’s true.”
“Beau already thinks he lives there.”
Also true. The dog had claimed my couch as his throne within three days of the announcement going public.
He’d also discovered that my apartment got better morning sun for napping and that my neighbor, the single mom with the twelve-year-old, had an endless supply of treats she’d give him whenever we walked out into the hall.
“So you’re saying Beau is making real estate decisions for both of us?” I asked.
“I’m saying Beau has opinions, and we should respect them.”
“Very diplomatic.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ve been practicing.”
The frames Tolrek had bought me held sketches now. Some of Beau, because Beau was an excellent model who would sit still for treats. Some of Tolrek when he wasn’t paying attention. One of my father behind the bench during a game, his attention completely focused on the ice.
I’d started drawing more. Tolrek had started teaching me about orc hockey history in the evenings when we were both too tired to do anything but sit on the couch with Beau between us.
He would’ve made an amazing teacher.
“You could still teach,” I’d told him one night.
“Maybe when I retire.”
“That’s not for years.”
“Then I have time to practice my lectures on you.”
On the ice, the puck dropped and the game started.
I did my job, hyperaware of every shift Tolrek played, a dual focus that had become automatic over the past six months.
He read a developing play in the first period and adjusted his position before their forward could exploit it. This created space for Crim to intercept the pass and drive into their zone for a goal.
My father’s voice came through the headset. “That’s what we need. Keep it tight.”
Tolrek’s line cycled through again midway through the second period. The other team’s power play deployed, and our penalty kill held. Tolrek called out an adjustment to Brashe that tightened the formation enough to force a turnover.
The press around the league had stopped calling the trade a gamble somewhere around January. Now they called it a steal. Tolrek’s stats weren’t flashy, but anyone who understood hockey could see what he did. He made everyone around him better.
The third period started with the score tied 2-2.
Tension ratcheted higher with each shift. Players moved faster, hit harder, and fought for every inch of ice like their careers depended on it. Playoff hockey was different, and this was as close to the playoffs as the regular season could get.
With four minutes left, Tolrek made a read that shouldn’t have been impossible.
Their forward drove toward our zone, cutting through the neutral zone with the kind of confidence that came from knowing he’d identified a gap in our coverage. Tolrek tracked him, reading not just where the forward was but where the play would develop three seconds from now.
I’d watched him do this a hundred times now.
More. Every game, practice, and time he stepped onto ice.
But this was different. This was the read I’d shown him in that first tape session, the one where I’d pulled footage from earlier seasons and told him, This is not who you were. This is who you still are.
He’d believed me.
Now twenty thousand people were watching him prove it.
He adjusted his position before the forward committed to the lane, cutting off the passing option and forcing the play wide. When the forward tried to go through him anyway, Tolrek absorbed the hit and stripped the puck in one motion.
The sequence happened fast enough that most people in the arena probably didn’t register how good the read had been.
I’d been watching Tolrek long enough to see how extraordinary he was.
He sent the puck up ice to our winger who drove into their zone. Two passes later, Crim buried it in the back of their net.
The arena exploded.
I sat in the press box with my hands frozen over the keyboard, watching Tolrek skate back to the bench while twenty thousand people celebrated around him.
He was playing the best hockey of his career, and I got to watch it happen every night.
The final two minutes felt like hours. Their team pushed hard, pulling their goalie for an extra attacker and throwing everything they had at our net. But our defensive structure held, and the buzzer sounded. The arena went absolutely feral.
We’d clinched a playoff spot.
Players poured onto the ice, converging in celebration. Tolrek stood near the bench, his helmet off, grinning wide. My breath caught. Damn, he was gorgeous when he smiled.
Brashe grabbed him in a hug that turned into a headlock. Crim skated over and joined the pile. Other players followed until Tolrek disappeared under at least seven orcs who were all trying to celebrate on top of him at the same time.
My father stood behind the bench, smiling.
I packed up my gear and headed down to ice level, following the route I’d walked hundreds of times. Media and staff crowded the lower area, all riding the energy of a win that mattered.
The tunnel opened onto the ice, and I stopped at the edge.
My father stood near center ice, surrounded by players and assistant coaches. Media had already started filtering onto the ice for post-game interviews. Cameras were flashing everywhere, capturing the moment from every angle.
Across the ice, Tolrek looked up, his gaze finding me.
The noise around us didn’t quiet, but it stopped mattering.
My father noticed where Tolrek was looking and found me standing at the edge of the ice. He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.
Stepping onto the ice in shoes was exactly as treacherous as it sounded. I took careful steps, my arms out for balance, probably looking ridiculous but not caring enough to stop.
Tolrek met me halfway, his cheeks flushed, his chest still heaving from the final shift. Sweat dampened his hairline.
He looked perfect.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You saw that positioning sequence in the third period?”
“I did. We’re reviewing it tomorrow.”
His grin widened. “That’s my girl.” He lifted me into his arms and kissed me.
When we broke apart, he placed me back on my feet, and his arm settled around my shoulders. We made our way toward the tunnel together.
For years, I’d thought staying in the background meant nothing bad could happen to me. Following my father from city to city meant I’d never have to risk building something that was completely mine.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges and new games and all the complications that came with being in a relationship while working in professional sports.
Tonight we had this.
The tunnel swallowed us, and the noise from the arena faded.
Tolrek’s hand found mine.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
“Playoff spot clinched,” he said.
“Clinched? We dominated.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m the Director of Video Analysis. My opinion is professional.”
His laugh rumbled through his chest into mine, because we were still pressed close enough that I could feel it. “Whatever you say, love.”
“Damn right, whatever I say.”
Ahead of us, the building stretched out in familiar corridors and rooms I’d walked through for years. Behind us, my father was probably doing post-game media, explaining the systems and the reads and all the tactical decisions that had led to this win.
I belonged to this world now, fully, without hiding.
Not invisible any longer.
Not to Tolrek.
My father.
Or myself.