Epilogue
The mic’s not the weird part. I’ve sat in front of enough of them. What’s weird is who’s on the other side.
“Welcome to today’s episode of On the Line, ” Briar says, smooth and polished now that she’s found her stride.
My little sister, who started this podcast to pad her internship applications and somehow turned it into a legit platform.
“Today, we’re stepping off campus and into the pro world.
Our guest needs no introduction. My brother, Dash Sterling, is a winger for Brooklyn and is apparently having the best season of his career, four games from the cup. ”
“Hey, B,” I say, leaning toward the mic, grin tugging at my mouth.
“Don’t ‘B’ me like you know me like that. This is serious journalism. You’re supposed to be nervous and worried, I’m going to ask some hard questions.”
“It’s Tuesday,” I deadpan.
She groans. “Okay, fine. What do you think has made this your best season yet?”
“Focus and commitment,” I answer without hesitation. “Always been part of me, but now it’s deeper. I’m not just playing for me anymore. I’m playing for the team, for my family … for Noelle.”
Briar hums knowingly. “So your routine’s different?”
“Yeah. Bed at the same time, up at the same time. Eating cleaner. Training smarter. But it’s not just the schedule. It’s having a partner who keeps me accountable. Noelle doesn’t let me slack. She makes sure I work hard and live easy.”
“Live easy? Explain.”
“Sure. I know the person I wake up to every day and go to sleep with at night, values me as much as I value her, which in turn makes me value life a little more. At the end of the day, I’m not just Dash Sterling, hockey player.
I’m Dash, her guy. The one hauling trash bags before Ernest and Hemingway rip them open. ”
Briar laughs. “For the listeners, Ernest and Hemingway are cats, not teammates.”
“They’d still hit harder than some defensemen.”
“Go deeper. What else has changed?”
I chuckle. “I’m thinking differently about life. Have a broader perspective. It’s not all money or future plans. It’s what she’s reading, what’s making her smile like that. So we read a book a week.”
“Ooo, that’s rough.”
“It’s rough when it’s listed on a syllabus and you have to.
Not rough when you know that, tonight, you’re gonna eat pie and chat about these complex characters in messed-up situations that figure it out in about four hundred pages, or a historical fiction book that makes you look at a situation different than you were taught. ”
“So, a private book club?”
“I mean, sure?”
“Why sure? Why not?”
I laugh. “When we’re not talking books and hockey, we’re planning a future, dreaming of what we want and what we can do for those we love.”
“And others.”
“Always give a little more than you think you should, but don’t drain the reserve.”
“You’re talking money?”
“Not just money, emotionally, too. Don’t let people drain you, because what good are you then?”
“Ain’t that the truth?” She laughs.
I lean in, flipping it back. “All right, enough about me. You’re D1 now. Soccer and classes. How are you balancing it?”
Her cheeks go pink, but she shrugs. “Calendar’s my best friend. Practices, lifts, games, papers … I juggle it because I love it. Same way you love the ice. And this podcast? Started as a box to check for my internship. Now, it’s mine. My outlet.”
“Proud of you, B,” I say, and mean it.
She ducks her head, but she’s smiling when she flips to the next page. “Okay. This is your best season yet. What could make it better?”
“Finishing it. Holding the cup. Sharing that with the guys, with Noelle, with our families. That’s the dream. But truth? I’ve already won more than I thought I could.”
Briar narrows her eyes, like she’s baiting me. “Because of her?”
“Because of her,” I confirm. “Because of us. Pembrooke Books is hers, but it’s also ours—the place that grounded me, that reminded me there’s more than just the next game. And the estate in Harrington? That was her push. Now we just have to figure out what to do with it.”
“I got ideas,” she huffs.
“I bet you do.” I laugh.
“Let’s get back to the book club, do your teammates ever pick up a book?”
Right on cue, the conference room door swings open and in come the guys … and not just them. Nalani, Claudia, and even Dylan Daniels—our coach—file in, each of them holding up a copy of the same book like it’s the holy grail.
Briar blinks, startled. “Wait—what is happening?”
“Book club,” I say with a grin. “The Bears Adult Book Club, to be exact. Started them out with a shorter read. Bedtime read for the ladies out there who love a hot little bedtime story, but a few of these guys haven’t finished yet.” I point at Marshall.
“Look, man, it’s not my fault I need a break after a few pages.”
“Break is short for spanking the?—”
“Hey now,” Briar cuts off Killer, “we’ll have none of that talk.”
The room breaks into laughter again as Claudia waves her copy in the air. “Short and steamy, thank God . Even I can finish this between nap schedules.”
Nalani smirks. “Please, I finished it in one night.”
Coach D shakes her head, deadpan. “Don’t ask me questions about chapter five.”
The guys are still clowning, and I lean back into the mic.
“Truth is, the bond with the team feels different this year. Stronger. And that’s not just about the locker room or the rink.
It’s about the women in our lives, too. The wives, the girlfriends, Mrs. Costello—they’re part of it.
They keep us grounded, remind us what we’re really working for.
That connection off the ice has brought us closertogether on the ice. That’s why this team feels unshakable.”
“Perfect.” Briar clears her throat. “We’re going to open the line to callers. First up, Lady L from New York.”
“Well, isn’t this adorable?” Lady L purrs. “The whole team in a book club. Guess it makes sense since the author is Dash’s new little girlfriend, right?”
The room goes still.
Briar frowns. “I’m sorry, caller, what’s your?—”
“Lady L” barrels on, her tone sharpening to a blade.
“Come on; don’t play dumb. Noelle Pembrooke.
Who else would it be? She’s the only one not there.
God, it’s almost funny. Took ruining my wedding and wanting my life so badly she had to hook up with my ex.
Meaning Dash.” Her laugh is high-pitched, ugly. “Pathetic.”
The air in the room thins. My knuckles tighten around the mic, every instinct screaming at me to fire back, but I manage to stay calm.
“Not my girlfriend. My fiancée, and she’s not the only one not here.”
“She wanted to write! Like she has anything to say! Or any story to be told, for that matter.”
I have no idea how I keep my composure, but I do. “You do know she owns a bookstore, right? She doesn’t work for the organization; therefore, she’s working , so she’s not here.”
“So!”
I look back at the guys. “The villain in this, her name’s not L, is it?”
They all answer nope.
“Then it’s safe to say this is probably not my fiancée.”
“Trash, all of you. Go Rangers!”
“All right, Lauren,” Briar says firmly, voice steady even as her hand slams the button to kill the line. “That’s enough.”
Dead air for half a second. Then Marshall mutters, “Well, that escalated.”
The room bursts again—not with laughter this time, but low curses, shifting chairs, everyone talking at once.
I sit back, pulse hammering, jaw tight, already thinking of the one person who’s not here, who just got dragged into the spotlight by someone desperate to tear her down.
Briar’s trying to find her footing again when the producer signals another call patched through.
“This is … friends from the back corner of a certain wedding,” a voice drawls, familiar, and I can already hear the smirk in it.
“Yeah, we were at a function. Just wanted to thank Lady L and her husband for being such classless dick pickles that they threatened to sue the organization if they didn’t get refunded for their season tickets.
Which, by the way, you’ve got zero grounds for.
But we picked up the box, and even though we’re not technically hockey fans, we’re Dash Sterling fans. ”
The guys around me break into open laughter, Briar choking on a cough to cover hers.
“If there’s ever a question and it were to go to court,” the caller goes on, warming to the rant, “we’ve got it all on video. So … suck it, L and your perfect match, that vile, opportunistic louse—I mean, spouse.”
“Holy—” Marshall mutters, doubling over, while Killer whistles low.
“And one more thing,” the caller adds, like a mic-drop. “We’ll match Dash’s giveaway. Ten more tickets, our treat. So thanks again, not even close to a lady, L. You just doubled the good vibes.”
The line clicks dead, and the room erupts. Briar’s lost her “professional host” mask completely, laughing so hard she can’t get the outro out, and even Coach D’s cracks a smile.
I lean into the mic, grin sharp. “Guess that settles it. Bears book club, cup run, and twenty tickets up for grabs. Thanks for playing.”
The second Briar wraps the show, I’m out of my chair. The guys are still cracking up about Louie’s friends and “dick pickles,” while Briar fields texts from her producer about turning the Lauren mess into a spin segment, but I have to leave when I know Noelle just got dragged on air.
Joel barely stops when I climb into the SUV, and he keeps rolling.
Traffic feels like it’s crawling, my pulse matching every red light, every horn. I’m pacing the inside of my skull, rehearsing apologies I know she won’t want to hear.
When we turn the corner, there’s a line down the block.
Joel whistles. “Damn.”
“I’ll get out here,” I say, already out the door, jogging across the street and pushing my way through the crowd to get inside ofPembrooke Books.
It’s not just the line out there, there’s a line . A line of people wrapped around the stacks, curling past the table, clutching copies of Steaming Cup of You.
The register’s dinging nonstop, the bell above the door never stops chiming, and Sofie’s in the corner with her damn camera crew, catching every second.
And there’s Noelle, behind the counter, hair half-falling out of her braid, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
She doesn’t even look at me at first, just keeps moving—scanning books, bagging them, thanking customers with a voice that’s sweet but pitched high, too high.
When her gaze finally snaps to me across the store, it isn’t relief. It’s narrowed eyes and a look that could skin me alive.
Shit.
I weave my way through the crowd, the sound of chatter and laughter rising around me. Everyone’s buzzing, happy, oblivious. Everyone except her.
“Sweets,” I say low when I reach the counter, leaning close enough so no one else hears, “don’t look at me like that.”
Her jaw tightens, and she slides another bag across the counter before whispering back, “Look at the line , Dash.”
For a second, I think she’s pissed at me for Lauren’s stunt, for Briar letting the name bring in the book, for the mess that just went down. But then I catch it—the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, the shine in her eyes that isn’t anger, but something else.
Not mad. Not broken. Overwhelmed.
Because hello! There’s a line out the door for her hot little book.
“It’s all the way down the block.”
“Shut up,” she gasps.
“You’re welcome,” I murmur, fighting a grin.
She narrows her eyes harder, like she might actually throw a book at my head. But this time, I see the truth under it.
She’s happy. Terrified. Blown sideways. But happy.
And so am I.
The End