Epilogue
CHLOE
Three hours ago, I was a reasonably anonymous (outside the hockey world) event planner with a failing business and a broken heart. Now I’m “Glitter Jersey Girl,” and there are already memes.
I showed it to Brody as he slid into the booth. He almost smacked his face on the table, doubling over in laughter.
“You’re never living this down,” he said, wiping his eyes.
“Neither are you. Someone made a clip of you climbing over the boards with the Mission: Impossible theme song.”
“How many views?”
“Two million.”
“Bam. That’s how it’s done.”
And now we’re at Ironclad Desserts—the place where this whole ridiculous, beautiful, complicated mess sort of started.
Or restarted.
The place smells like butter and cinnamon and happiness. Vintage lights cast warm shadows across the brick walls. A couple at a nearby table keeps glancing over, whispering, probably wondering if we’re who they think we are.
Spoiler: We are.
Brody sits across from me, freshly showered, wearing jeans and a sports coat (of course), hair still slightly damp. He smells like soap and aftershave. Fresh, clean. Like a new start.
“You have glitter on your face,” he says, reaching across the table.
“I have glitter everywhere. I’m pretty sure there’s glitter in places glitter should never be.”
He grins. “Yeah, you’re not bringing that jersey in the car with you. I’m not getting glitter in the seats.”
“What? I’m keeping it forever. I’m gonna wear it to every game.” I’m grinning too. Can’t stop.
Marcie approaches our table. “Chloe!” She’s beaming. “Girl, I saw you on the Jumbotron tonight. That was incredible!”
My face heats. “You watched the game?”
“Everyone watched the game. We had it on the TV behind the bar. The whole place erupted when he climbed into the stands.” She looks at Brody, still grinning. “You’re definitely an upgrade from the sketchbook. No offense to the sketchbook.”
“None taken,” I manage.
“The usual?” Marcie asks.
“You know what? Surprise me.”
Marcie grins. “You got it.”
The college kids two tables over are definitely filming us again.
“We can leave—”
“No.” I reach across the table, take his hand. “I don’t care.”
The cookies arrive a few minutes later—two Midnight Eclipse cookies. Cast-iron skillets with dark chocolate brownie cookies. Sea salt caramel is drizzled across the top, the bourbon vanilla ice cream slowly melting into creamy pools.
I take a bite. Close my eyes. Let the chocolate and caramel and butter work their magic.
“This is what happiness tastes like,” I say when I open my eyes.
Brody is staring at me instead of eating his cookie.
“What?” I ask.
“Just memorizing this. You. Here. Happy.”
My throat tightens. “I am happy.”
“Good.” He finally takes a bite of his own cookie. His eyes close. “Oh, this is dangerous. I’m going to gain twenty pounds if this becomes our place.”
I blush at that, but I like the idea of it. “Worth it?”
“Absolutely.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Brody sets down his fork.
“So. My contract extension came through.”
I look up. “Yeah? That’s great!”
“Three more years. Maybe longer if they like what they see.” He’s smiling, relief clear in his expression. “They were waiting to see how I’d finish out the season. Tonight’s game helped.”
“You were incredible tonight.”
“I had good motivation.” He reaches across the table, brushes glitter off my hand. “So, it looks like I’m staying in Minneapolis. For the foreseeable future.”
“Good,” I say. Okay, that isn’t at all what I mean, but it’s hard to vocalize the feeling of confetti exploding in your soul.
“What about you?” he asks. “How’s the event planning business?”
“It’s good. Really good.” I take another bite of cookie. “The wedding magazine spread brought in three new clients. One of them is a corporate event for a tech company—huge budget, lots of potential for referrals. And…I’m out of debt.”
“That’s amazing, Chloe.”
“It is. But—” I pause. Set down my fork. Look at him. “I have bigger news.” I can’t keep the smile off my face. “I got a publishing offer. For a five-book illustration series. Children’s books. Dragons and adventure and—it’s everything I’ve wanted.”
Brody’s face does something complicated. A smile that’s equal parts pleased and…something.
“What?” I ask.
“Just about time.” He’s still smiling. “I hope you’re taking it.”
“I am. I mean, I’m going to. Now that…” I stop. Laugh. “Well, let’s just say I happen to have come into some money recently.”
He laughs too. Winks.
And right then, I realize—it’s past us. We can laugh about it. Tell our…kids? Yes, maybe, someday.
“Also,” Brody says, his expression shifting to something more serious, “my dad went to treatment. He’s thirty days sober.”
“Brody.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m so glad. How is he?”
“Better. Really better. Clear-headed. Present. He’s going to AA meetings, has a sponsor, the whole thing.” He pauses. “I think we’re going to fix up the house, spend some time together in the offseason.”
“Brody, that’s great.”
“I think it’ll be good for us. He needs support. And honestly, I think I need it too. We have a lot to work through.” He grins. “Plus, I’m thinking about doing some upgrades to the house. New kitchen, renovated bathroom, maybe adding a deck. Give me something to connect with him about.”
My heart flutters. “Of course you are.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just—you’re a good son.”
We finish our cookies slowly, savoring every bite. Talk about the upcoming games and my ideas for another book. Whether the NHL will start selling glitter jerseys.
Brody says doubtful, but I think I’m really on to something.
The door opens, and someone walks in—a man in his thirties, dark hair neatly combed, wearing a blazer.
Brody’s face lights up. He stands immediately.
“Hey, Milo!”
I turn. The man—Milo—sees Brody and grins. Crosses the coffee shop with his hand extended.
“Brody Kane! Didn’t expect to see you here. Good game tonight.”
Brody nods, smiles. “You’re a little ways from Iowa.”
“In town on business.”
Then it hits me.
Milo.
Milo Brooks.
From Stratton Publishing.
Oh my…Seriously?
Milo notices me. His eyes widen. “And you must be Chloe.”
My face is on fire. “That’s me. Chloe Dawson.”
He extends a hand. “Nice to put a face to the name.”
I shake his hand, still processing that Brody apparently knows my publisher.
He glances at his watch. “I’d love to stay and talk. But I’m meeting someone here—one of our authors. She should be here any minute. You probably know her, Brody—Everly Hart.”
What? I love Everly Hart. I have a shelf of her books.
Stay calm. Do not be awkward!
Brody nods. “Yeah, I know Everly. Assistant Coach Hart’s daughter. We met once at a Blue Ox event.”
The door opens again, and I practically leap from my chair to get a look. A woman walks in—late twenties, dark-auburn hair, confident stride, carrying a laptop bag. She’s pretty in an understated way, like she doesn’t try too hard because she doesn’t need to.
“Everly!” Milo says.
She sees him and then beyond him to Brody. “Brody Kane. I should’ve known you’d be here. Saw that Jumbotron kiss—very smooth.”
“Thanks.” Brody gestures to me. “Everly, this is Chloe. Chloe, Everly Hart.”
Standing to shake her hand, I say, “I love your books. The one about the cold-case detective—I stayed up all night reading it.”
“Thank you.” She seems genuinely pleased. “That’s always nice to hear.”
Milo gestures toward a table in the corner. “We should let you two finish your date. Everly and I have a series to discuss.”
I sink back into my seat, staring at Brody as they walk away.
“You know Milo Brooks,” I say slowly.
“I know Milo Brooks.” He’s suddenly very interested in his cookie.
“My publisher.”
“So it would seem.”
I blink at him, still reeling from the shock. “How? How on earth do you know Milo Brooks?”
Brody smirks, shrugs a little. “He’s my cousin.”
“Brody.”
He looks up. “If you must know, I called him. A few weeks ago.”
My heart stops. “You what?”
“During the thirty days. I called him and told him you were incredibly talented and he was getting a bargain, that he should reconsider his offer.” The words come out in a rush.
I’m staring at him. Tears forming.
“You did that? While we weren’t even speaking?”
“I wanted you to have your dream. Even if—” He stops. Swallows. “Even if you ended up hating me. Are you mad?” he asks, looking genuinely worried.
“No.” I reach across the table, take both his hands. “Thank you. For coming to my rescue.”
His face softens. “Always.”
The word hangs between us—a callback to Barcelona, to the beginning, to when he was just a stranger being kind.
Someone approaches our table—a young woman with her phone.
“Excuse me, are you two the couple from the game tonight?”
I look at Brody. He looks at me.
“That’s us,” I say.
“Could I get a photo?”
We stand. Pose together. Brody’s arm around my shoulders, both of us smiling.
We leave together eventually—hand in hand, walking out into the cold Minneapolis night. Past the vintage photos on the walls. Past the other customers, who smile at us with knowing expressions. Past Milo and Everly, who wave as we go.
Outside, the air is crisp and clear. Stars are trying to break through the city lights. We walk slowly, not in any rush. My hand in his, our breath forming clouds in the cold air.
“I love you,” he says. Simple. Clear. Real.
“I love you too,” I say.
Then he leans over, kisses me. Soft and sweet and tasting like chocolate and caramel and promises.
Because sometimes, the best stories start with a lie and end with the truth.
Thank you for reading The Not-So-Neutral Zone.