Epilogue
Sebastian
Our midcentury modern home sits on three acres outside the city.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, open concept living spaces, and enough yard for Sockrates to run himself to exhaustion.
The bedroom windows face east, catching the morning sun that streams across our California king.
It's the perfect house to raise our family in.
We moved here two years ago, after I signed my new contract.
Sockrates stopped stealing socks about a month after the move, like he finally had enough space to stop being a klepto. Though he still occasionally hoards one of my game-day socks, as if maintaining tradition.
Mad finds it funny. I find it annoying.
These three years of marriage have been everything I never knew I wanted.
Even through the heartbreak of failed pregnancies and fertility treatments, we grew stronger.
Each loss pulled us closer instead of driving us apart.
Mad's strength through it all humbled me.
She endured medical procedures, needles, hormones, disappointment—all while supporting my career and growing her own.
I really married a superwoman. Surprised? No. But grateful.
For the first time in my life, I have someone who loves me unconditionally and who I would burn the whole world for.
Who watches every game from the family box, wearing my jersey.
Who understands that hockey is what I do, not who I am.
Who made a marriage that started as a PR stunt into something real—the realest thing I've ever known.
It's still early morning when I feel Mad's hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake. My first thought is she's had another nightmare. They've plagued her since our false positive eight months ago.
"Sebastian, wake up."
I roll over, already reaching for her. "I'm here, baby."
Her face comes into focus—tear-streaked, but her eyes hold something I haven't seen in a long time. Hope.
"Look," she whispers, holding out a white plastic stick.
My brain takes a moment to register what I'm seeing. Two pink lines. Clear as fucking day.
"Is that—?" My voice cracks, and I can't finish the sentence.
She nods, more tears spilling down her cheeks. "I didn't want to wake you, but I couldn't wait."
The room spins. My heart slams against my ribs like I've just done a full-ice sprint. I take the test from her trembling fingers, staring at those two lines that represent everything we've been fighting for.
"How many did you take?" It's a stupid question, but we've been here before. False positives. Hopes that turned to ash.
"Three." Her smile breaks through the tears. "All positive."
I pull her against me so hard she gasps. My face presses into her hair, and I'm not ashamed of the wetness on my cheeks. After three years and more doctor appointments than I can count, we're here.
"We're pregnant, baby."
She nods against my chest. "We're pregnant."
The mattress dips as Sockrates jumps onto the bed, sensing the shift in energy. He nudges his snout between us, whining softly. I scratch behind his ears with my free hand, the other still clutching the test.
"You're gonna be a big brother, buddy."
Sockrates tilts his head, blue eyes eerily intelligent. As if he understands exactly what's happening.
"I love you," I tell Maddison, my voice rough with emotion. "We're going to be parents."
Her hand slides to my face, thumb wiping away tears I didn't realize were still falling. "I love you too."
I place my palm flat against her stomach, knowing our baby is there—microscopic but mighty. A fighter, like their mother. Like me.
"Hey, little one," I whisper. "We've been waiting for you."
Thirty-six weeks later, Mad is absent from my box for the first time in a while.
She's staying at home, watching on TV. That's where I'm headed once the game ends.
I wasn't going to show up since I prefer being by Mad's side, but she insisted I should be here.
That this game is not just for me, but for her and our little one.
It took a couple of serious threats before I finally conceded and went to the arena, Coach chewing my ear off after being almost late.
Tonight's Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final. If we win, it'll be my first Cup as captain. Coach Anderson says I'm playing the best hockey of my career this season. Maybe because for the first time, I have something more important waiting for me at home.
Then…
The final buzzer sounds. We've done it. 4-2 victory.
Stanley fucking Cup champions.
The bench empties. Gloves and sticks fly through the air. I'm crushed under a pile of sweaty teammates, their screams ringing in my ears. Twenty-three years of skating, thousands of hours of practice, hundreds of games—all for this moment.
When I finally stand, Coach Anderson is pushing through the celebration, his face serious despite the win.
"Clay! Clay!" He grabs my shoulders. "Your wife's water broke. She's on the way to Memorial Hospital."
The world stops. The roar of the crowd fades to nothing.
"What?" I shout over the noise.
"The baby's coming!" he yells back. "Go!"
I don't remember getting to the locker room. Don't remember stripping off my gear. Jonesy appears at my side, still in half his equipment.
"I'm driving you," he says. "You're shaking too much to handle a car."
He's right. Adrenaline from the win combined with panic has my hands trembling so hard I can barely lace my shoes.
"She's two weeks early," I say, the fear finally hitting me full force. "It's too soon, right?"
Jonesy grabs my bag. "Babies come when they come. Let's go."
We bypass the press, ignoring the confusion as we bolt through the back entrance. My phone vibrates—Mad's OB-GYN.
"Maddison ordered me to call you. She's doing fine," she says. "Contractions five minutes apart. The baby looks strong."
The baby. Our son. We found out at the twenty-week ultrasound but kept it private, our little secret in a world where nothing stays personal.
"Tell her I'm coming," I say, sliding into Jonesy's Jeep. "Tell her not to have him without me."
Jonesy drives like we're being chased, weaving through traffic while I grip the door handle so hard my knuckles turn white. My mind races with every worst-case scenario. Premature lungs. Breathing problems. NICU stays.
"He'll be fine," Jonesy says, reading my mind. "Maddie's already at nine months. My sister had twins at thirty weeks, and they're monsters now. Ten years old and already in hockey."
I nod because apparently, I've lost the ability to speak.
The Stanley Cup. My son. Both arriving on the same night. Life is funny that way.
I hear Mad before I see her—a sharp cry cutting through the hospital corridor as a contraction hits. The nurse points me to room 312, and I burst in, sweating and fucking palpitating.
"Sebastian!" Her face crumples with relief when she sees me. Her hand reaches out, and I take it, pressing it to my lips.
"I'm here, baby. I'm here."
"Your son" —she gasps as another contraction builds— "has your timing. Middle of the Stanley Cup—"
Her words cut off as pain takes over. I feel helpless, holding her hand while she struggles through it.
"That's it," I say, falling into the same rhythms I use with rookies during tough practices. "Breathe through it. You're stronger than the pain."
When the contraction passes, she glares at me. "I hate you right now. This is your fault."
I kiss her forehead, not taking it personally. The doctor warned me about labor talk. "I know, baby. I'm sorry."
"Did you win?"
"Yeah, we won."
She smiles through her exhaustion. "Good. I didn't want to have missed the game for nothing."
The next two hours blur into a cycle of contractions, breathing, and Mad alternating between cursing my existence and clutching my hand. I feed her ice chips, wipe her face with cool cloths, and remind her how incredible she is.
"I can't," she says after a particularly brutal contraction. "Sebastian, I can't do this."
I lean in close, one hand on her cheek. "Look at me. You're the strongest person I know. You've been fighting for this baby for three years. A few more pushes, and he's here."
Her eyes hold mine, and I see the determination take hold.
"Next contraction, push," the doctor says.
When it comes, Maddison bears down with everything she has, her face contorting with effort. I count for her, coach her through it, doing the only thing I can.
"The head is crowning. One more big push, Maddison."
She grips my hand so tight I think she might break it, but I don't care.
With a final, powerful push and a guttural cry that I'll hear in my dreams forever, our son enters the world. His angry wail fills the room, strong and insistent.
"He's perfect," the doctor says, placing him on Maddison's chest. "A little small at five pounds even, but strong lungs, good color."
He's red and wrinkled and covered in whatever that whitish thing is, with a shock of dark hair plastered to his head. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen … next to my wife, of course.
"Hi, baby," Maddison whispers, tears streaming down her face. "We've been waiting for you."
I touch his tiny hand, and his fingers curl around mine with surprising strength. I'm undone. Completely wrecked by this tiny person we created.
They take him to the nursery for standard checks, promising to bring him back soon. Maddison dozes, exhausted from labor but with a peaceful smile on her lips. I sit beside her bed, watching her breathe.
Three years ago, we stood at an altar, our marriage a calculated solution to a PR nightmare. I knew then that I wanted more—wanted her, for real, forever. But I never imagined this completeness. This sense of everything finally being exactly as it should be.
The nurse returns, carrying our son swaddled in a blue blanket. "Here you go, Dad. All clean and ready for some bonding time."
She places him in my arms, and the weight of him—so light yet so significant—nearly brings me to my knees. I sink into the chair, staring at his perfect face. He's calmed now, eyes closed, lips making tiny sucking motions in his sleep.
"Matthew Clay," I whisper, the name Mad and I chose. "Welcome to the world, little man."
Outside this room, a Stanley Cup waits. Interviews, celebrations, parades.
None of it compares to this moment. The weight of my son in my arms. My wife sleeping peacefully after bringing him into the world.
The family we fought for, through fake marriage and real love, through losses and heartbreak, through everything.
In hockey, winning the Cup is considered the ultimate victory. But as I sit here holding my son, watching my wife, I know the truth. I really won at life.
The sweetest victory of all.
The End
Thank you for reading!