Epilogue
Jackson
Iwork harder, play faster. I don’t allow myself to feel disappointment. Not about saying goodbye to my teammates and friends. Not about leaving the sun and the ocean. I don’t even give Carmichael shit when he’s a grumbling dick—because Ethan sacrificed his dreams for our family.
They retired his jersey—number forty-nine—at the arena with a packed house and a cheering crowd.
I broke down, collapsing to one knee on the ice and bawling my eyes out, thinking about all he gave up.
For me. For us. He will forever be the greatest man I know, and I’ll do anything to make him proud.
It’s been almost two months since I joined the Stars, and we’ve only lost one game. We clinched a playoff spot. I doubt a win is in the cards this season, but I’ll make it happen in the coming years. Someday, Ethan and I will hold that trophy up together.
Reece, Lucas, and the twins continue to investigate my father’s circle of sick fucks. I liquidated all of Kyle’s investments and gave the money to a secret shelter for trafficking victims, a place the Viking was familiar with.
Our life is beautiful, more than I ever imagined. I’m home more, travel less. I hold Ethan’s hand as we stroll down the sidewalk and pop into his office whenever I wish. No shame. No panic...except for now, when Dr. Hill says, “Looks like we’re having a baby today!”
It was a routine appointment, one we’ve been attending every week since Aurora was put on bed rest a month ago. Once she told them she was throwing up again, we went directly from the obstetrician’s office to the maternity unit for observation and tests.
Ethan grips the back of the chair beside the hospital bed, the blood drained from his face. “But he’s early?”
“Yes, a bit early, but thirty-five weeks is not unusual—especially when the mother has preeclampsia.” She offers a reassuring smile.
Aurora sits upright, her hair in a messy bun, her eyelids drooping despite having slept most of the day and night. Reece adjusts the pillows behind her. He hasn’t left her side in days. He’s been warning us this would happen, saying her blood pressure was far too high.
I take Ethan’s hand, finding it cold and clammy. “But everything’s okay, right? Aurora and the baby will be okay?”
Dr. Hill nods. “Baby’s vitals are strong. He’s a good size. I would recommend a C-section, though. The baby’s movements have slowed, and I’d like to avoid any further risk.”
We just saw our son on the ultrasound; the technician pointed out his full head of hair. No one said there was a problem.
“Let’s do it,” Aurora cuts in, voice trembling. “When?”
The doctor checks her phone. “I’d say within the hour.”
I swallow to wet my dry throat. My cheeks tingle, and I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe.
Holy fuck. We’re having a baby.
Ethan sways on his feet and blinks repeatedly. “I...we don’t have the nursery finished. The crib isn’t assembled. We haven’t even packed a hospital bag. I’ve been busy. I-I had a plan.”
Of course he did. Coach always has a strategy.
The doctor leaves, and the room becomes a whirlwind of activity.
Nurses bustle in and out, hooking Aurora up to more monitors and tubes.
They explain the procedure, rattling off risks and protocols while Reece hovers, absorbing every word.
Ethan paces beside the bed, texting frantically, his jaw clenched so tight, I worry he’ll crack a molar.
I’m trying to focus, but my mind keeps screaming, “Today! Our son is coming TODAY!”
“Jax,” Aurora calls out, reaching for me, her eyes shimmering. “I’m scared.”
My own eyes well up. “It’s okay to be scared.” I take her hand in mine, careful of her IV. “I love you more than life itself. Everything will be alright.” It has to be. I won’t survive otherwise.
Her tears spill over, her words nothing but a whisper, her lips quivering. “I just want the baby to be okay.”
“He’s going to be perfect.” I wipe her tears away, barely hanging on myself. “You’re going to be perfect. You’ve given us the greatest gift. Thank you.” The painful lump in my throat prevents me from pouring my heart out any further.
I’ve taken blows that broke bones, been driven into the boards so hard, I saw stars. I watched Reece almost die. But nothing, absolutely nothing, has ever terrified me as much as when the doctor walks in wearing scrubs.
“It’s time,” she announces, leaving no room for argument. “The surgical team is ready.”
My heart hammers erratically against my ribs. My legs nearly buckle. Two nurses shift Aurora from the bed onto a gurney, and I can’t release her hand. It’s physically impossible. She’s my lifeline.
“Can they all be there?” she asks, small and frightened.
A nurse grabs the IV pole and detangles the lines. “Only one support person in the operating room, I’m afraid. It’s hospital policy.”
Panic flashes across Ethan’s face. Jesus, he’s going to pass out.
“Go,” I tell him, though it kills me. “Go meet your son.”
His wide eyes search mine. “He’s your son too. Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I nod, even as my chest constricts. I want to be with Aurora. I want to be there when our son enters the world. “I’ll get the next baby.” I force a smile I don’t feel and release our girl’s hand for him to take.
I lean down and kiss her one last time. “I love you—so fucking much.” I press my forehead to hers. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
They wheel her away, Ethan alongside her, whispering reassurances I can’t hear. The door swings shut, and it’s only me and the Viking, the room silent.
My body shakes and my knees grow weak. My vision blurs.
Reece wraps his arms around me from behind, catching me before I hit the floor. “Easy. They’ll be okay. Just breathe.”
***
Ethan
I follow Aurora and the gurney down the hallway, the world narrowing to the squeak of the wheels and the thud of my shoes on the linoleum. We turn a corner, where a nurse hands me a pile of blue paper scrubs and a mask and points me to a closet-sized bathroom to change.
My fingers tremble so hard, I can’t undo my belt. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood and force myself to breathe in, hold, breathe out. Aurora needs me. My son needs me.
I have no clue how long it takes, but I get the scrubs on. I’m too flustered to figure out the mask, so I tie it around my neck and leave it dangling.
I exit the changing room, and she’s gone. “Where is she?” I snap at the nurse.
Despite my pissy mood, he smiles, covers my head with a mesh cap, fixes my mask, and leads me to the surgical suite.
The cramped operating room is bright white. I’m dazed, as if I’m walking through a strange dream. She’s already on the table, draped, masked, big brown eyes wide with terror.
The anesthesiologist is talking—something about a spinal, a sedative, don’t touch anything blue, but everything is blue, and Aurora’s arms are strapped down. Why are her arms strapped down? How will she hold the baby?
Oh my God, they’re going to give me the baby.
I almost laugh deliriously, but then the OB is speaking, fast and sharp.
“We’re starting. You’ll feel a lot of pressure, Aurora.”
I see the tip of the scalpel over the curtain, my stomach turns, and I glance away. Aurora’s eyes are fixed on me, and I know I’m supposed to be her rock, but my teeth are rattling.
“You doing okay, love?” I manage.
“I-I’m going to have a scar to go along with the stretch marks. Battle wounds,” she chuckles, but it’s nervous and self-deprecating, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
I bend down, but I’m unsure if I’m allowed to touch her, to comfort her. “They’re cutting my son out of you. I’ll worship you ’til my death. Don’t worry about a scar or a few stretch marks.”
The doctor urgently calls out orders. I peer over the curtain and gag. It doesn’t seem real. The lights are too bright. Christ, is there supposed to be that much blood?
They tug on Aurora’s abdomen, and my head spins. How do women live through this? Fuck, we shouldn’t do this again. One child is enough. This is enough. I’m about to have a fucking stroke or throw up. Most likely both.
A nurse holds up a slippery, bluish being who somehow came out of Aurora’s body. He’s motionless, and I start to panic—my heart pounds in my throat, my fingertips tingle. I swear, I’m going to faint, but then a wet, garbled cry splits the silence, and my legs nearly give out in relief.
The medical team exchanges times, numbers, and scores. None of it matters, though, because he’s wailing, fists clenched and furious, a shock of dark hair slimy with blood and goo.
Aurora sobs, “Is he okay?”
They release one of her wrists, and I grip her hand in mine. “He’s beautiful,” I choke out. “Baby, he’s perfect.”
A nurse wipes him down, suctions his mouth and nose, and wraps him tight like a burrito. Then, my son is in my arms. His small face is scrunched, eyes squinted shut against the harsh hospital lights, and I pull him tighter into my chest.
“Hey, little man,” I whisper, my throat constricted with emotion. “I’m your dad—well, one of them. You have so many people who love you.”
His head fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. He has Aurora’s upturned nose, and his lips are a miniature bow, puckered like his mother’s. A dimple in his left cheek appears and disappears with each mewling protest he makes.
All the oxygen leaves my lungs. I can’t breathe, can’t think. I can only stare at this tiny human who contains pieces of us, and for the third time in my existence, I fall so hard in love, it physically hurts.
“Let me see him, Ethan. Please,” Aurora cries, tears streaming down her temples into her hair.
A nurse adjusts her gown to allow for skin-to-skin contact, and I bring our baby to her, bracing his tiny body in both hands so nothing can go wrong.
Sobbing, she kisses his head, and my son calms in an instant.