Epilogue
JORDAN
Five years later
I’m in my office when my husband appears in the doorway.
My smile is instant. “Hi.”
Even when we own a hockey team together and I see him multiple times a day, I still swoon at the sight of Coach Tate Ward.
“Hi, honey.” He takes a seat on one of the chairs across from my desk, surveying the moving boxes all over the room with a funny smile. “This place looks like the guesthouse did after you moved in.”
With all the shopping bags and racks of clothing from the stylist, he means.
“That feels like yesterday.” I laugh at the memory. The past five years have flown by as my father handed more and more over to me.
Running this team? It’s a ton of work. I love it, though. I love these people, and I love working with Tate.
Across the hall, his office is empty. The movers were in and out all morning.
His eyes dip to my neckline. I’m wearing the necklace he bought me. I wear it most days. He’s bought me countless necklaces in the past five years, but the fine rose-gold chain is my favorite.
On my left hand, a ring sparkles, with a stone the color of my eyes set within a constellation of white diamonds. The Little Fox. Sometimes, the stone looks blue, sometimes violet, depending on what light I’m in.
I never used to be a jewelry person, but Tate changed that.
I look at my ring and I think of him, my partner and best friend.
I look at my ring and think of our wedding at the summer house two months after we won the Cup, surrounded by our friends and family.
I think about Bea, who’s fifteen now and plays guitar in a band and has a girlfriend and wants to study astronomy and music in university.
Phoebe still follows her everywhere and hasn’t aged a day since I brought her home to my crappy apartment.
I’m convinced she’s immortal. Bea plans to sneak her into her dorm when she goes to university.
I am not ready to think about Bea moving away to university, I told Holly the last time Bea brought it up. Between Bea and vacations and our shared love of horror movies, Holly and I have become close friends. Jeff’s a scaredy-cat like Tate and usually hides upstairs while the movies are on.
“You’re not packed,” Tate says, gesturing to the pictures on my wall.
My framed master’s diploma is in one of the boxes, but some photos remain—the one of my dad winning the Cup, the one of Tate and my dad years later, and one from five years ago, with Tate and me standing on either side of the Cup while I beam at the camera and he smiles at me.
Surrounding the photos of the Storm winning the Cup? Photos of my family. Tate. Bea. Holly and Jeff. Noah. My father. The team.
“I’m not ready to take them down yet,” I admit with a twisting smile.
Pippa with her Grammy from a few years ago.
Her, Jamie, and their dog, Daisy, at a barbecue we hosted last summer.
They moved to the suburb closest to us recently, the same street as Georgia and Alexei’s house, and adopted a second rescue dog, Lily.
Pippa’s busy in the studio, recording her next album, but yesterday Jamie accepted our offer of goalie coach, and he’ll be retiring when this season’s playoffs are over.
Pippa also privately admitted to me, Darcy, Georgia, and Hazel that she and Jamie are trying for a baby.
Beside the photo of them hangs an image of the Hartley-Millers at the Vancouver Storm annual picnic.
Rory and Hazel have two kids now, Kai, who just turned five, and Evvie, who’s two and a half.
They bought a house across the street from Jamie and Pippa.
As a father, Rory is playful, loving, and encouraging.
Too many times to count, I find him showing off photos of his children, or in Tate’s office asking parenting questions.
Being a father is his purpose, he tells everyone proudly.
I suspect they’re interested in adding one more child to their family.
Beside the Hartley-Miller family is a picture from Hayden and Darcy’s wedding.
They’re about to close on a home near us, too.
For now, Hayden is still happy to play on the team, but Tate and I have assured him that when he’s ready to retire, there’s a job in player development with his name on it.
Darcy is expecting, still in her first trimester and oscillating between excited, exhausted, and nauseous.
After spotting a worm on the walk to lunch the other day, she started dry heaving.
Hazel and Georgia assured her that her nausea will end soon.
The birth announcement of Violet Volkov-Greene still sits on my desk from a few months ago.
The tiny Violet spends a lot of her day either tucked in the crook of her father’s arm or napping in the room off of Alexei’s office, which he converted into a nursery.
Her name means everlasting love, he informed us.
The guy who used to be one of the most intimidating enforcers in the NHL now spends his days with hearts in his eyes, making soft, high-pitched baby noises to his daughter while Georgia smiles on.
Georgia is eager to return to the Storm, her work at the hospital, and coaching soccer, once her maternity leave ends.
My father has been heavily involved with the Storm for the last five years, but he’s finally ready to retire, although I suspect Ross will never be fully disengaged from the team.
He loves it too much, and it makes him happy, and for that, I’m grateful, because it’s been five years and I still learn new things about hockey and team ownership from him.
He comes over for dinner at least once a week and still plays in the ex-NHL league with Tate, Alexei, Rick Miller, Jay, and all those guys.
I suppose a few more players will be joining those games now.
And now, Tate is stepping down as head coach so we can run the team together.
Everything is changing, and it’s spectacular.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I ask Tate. “Once we extend the offer, you can’t take it back.”
He sits back, smiling at me. “Are we ready, you mean.”
My stomach dips in that delicious anticipating feeling, the one I felt during the season I joined the team, when I didn’t know what was coming next. “Okay, Tate. Are we ready?”
He nods, eyes warm and soft and steady on me. “Yes, Jordan. We’re ready.”
That funny feeling blooms in my chest, the one I’ll never get used to but never get enough of. The thrill and terror of change, of the unknown.
“Alright.” I glance at the time. “Let’s meet with the new head coach of the Vancouver Storm.”
The elevator opens and he steps out, grin cocky and eyes bright as he strides into my office and takes the seat beside Tate.
“Morning, Ward. Morning, Jordan.”
Tate and I exchange a smile, and I turn to Rory. “Good morning, Coach Miller.”