Epilogue
The sun is shining like it got paid to be here. Maybe it did. Theo wouldn’t put it past Conrad to bribe the weather.
Theo stands on the edge of the immaculately trimmed green, golf shoes biting into flawless grass, surrounded by chirping birds and the quiet hush of swaying pines.
He wants to be anywhere else.
The course is luxury—five-star fairways, hand-stitched leather seats on the carts, locker rooms that smell like cedar. Normally, this is his sanctuary. Golf is one of the few off-ice obsessions that actually soothes him. But today? Not so much.
Jake stands beside him, whistling cheerfully, leaning on his driver like he doesn’t have a single care in the goddamn world.
“You’re way too happy,” Theo spits out, adjusting his glove with unnecessary violence. He’s been tripping over his words all morning, tied in knots with anxiety over having to spend hours with his oldest brother.
Jake shrugs. “The sun’s out. The course is mint. Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
Theo glares sideways. “It will be.”
Jake chuckles, but there’s something behind his eyes. A glint.
“I already want to punch him,” Theo grits out as they round the path toward the clubhouse. “And I haven’t even seen his face yet.”
“Just hang on,” Jake says, smiling to himself.
That tone. Theo narrows his eyes. “Hang on for what?”
Conrad Tilbury waits outside the clubhouse in mirrored sunglasses and a smirk that makes Theo’s knuckles itch. He’s flanked, thankfully, by Quentin—cool as ever, leaning against the railing in a charcoal-gray quarter zip, coffee in hand, sunglasses perched like a crown.
Conrad gives a mocking, low whistle. “Look at you. Didn’t realize the AHL paid enough for you to afford clubs like that.”
Jake grabs Theo by the sleeve before he can respond. “Down, boy.”
Quentin steps between them smoothly, offering Theo and Jake fist bumps. “He’s already had two mimosas. Lower your expectations.”
“My expectations have always been low,” Theo mutters, following the group toward the carts, already plotting which club will make the best weapon when the time comes.
But then—
A yell cuts through the birdsong.
“Tilly!”
It’s shouted across the green, followed by a chorus of whistles, hoots, and catcalls. Theo whips around—and there they are.
Jesse’s standing atop a golf cart like a pirate on a ship, waving a putter in the air. Carter’s beside him, raising a can of beer. Tristan’s already shirtless for some reason. Pavel just nods, sipping something from a metal flask.
And in front of them—Mila.
She’s standing just off the first tee box, sunlight spilling over her.
A tiny pleated golf skirt and a fitted collared tank hug her curves.
Her legs are bare and golden, crossed at the ankle, and her hair’s pulled back into a sleek braid, a few strands teasing loose in the breeze.
Sunglasses perch on her sun-freckled nose, and she tilts her head when she catches him staring.
The smile that spreads across her face is slow and knowing, like she's been waiting all morning for him to notice.
The sight of her slams into Theo, flooding his senses—hot and dizzying. Like he’s been punched in the chest with affection. She looks like summer, like trouble, like everything that’s his.
And damn, she’s so his.
Beside her, Natalie is the perfect counterpoint—dressed head-to-toe like a time traveler from a 1930s country club. She’s wearing an aggressively patterned pair of knicker-boxers, a matching sweater vest, and a cabbie cap that’s tilted at a jaunty angle. She’s leaning on her putter like a cane.
“What the hell is this?” Theo breathes.
Jesse opens his arms wide, grinning. “Surprise! We booked the tee times before and after yours. Couldn’t let you suffer in rich-boy hell without support.”
“We brought noise,” Carter adds, lifting beers and a can of Pringles from his golf bag. “And snacks.”
“And,” Mila says sweetly, appearing beside him, looping her arms around his waist, “someone to stare at while you putt.”
Theo exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as Mila rises onto her toes and kisses the corner of his mouth.
Jake shrugs. “Told you to hang on.”
Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.
Conrad’s voice slices through the green like a whip.
“Porky. Get him down from that cart. Now. This isn’t the zoo, control your gorilla friends.”
Theo stops cold, mid-step. Mila stiffens at his side. The air snaps tight as everyone whips their heads to glare at Conrad, eight murderous expressions hitting him with the full force of their loathing.
It’s Carter—leaning back against the cart, arms crossed—who speaks first.
“What did you just call me, man?”
Conrad blinks.
The color drains from his face like wine spilling from a broken glass.
Jesse hops down from the roof in one smooth motion, landing beside Carter in a crouch. He straightens slowly, all mock innocence.
“Uh-oh, bro,” he says wide-eyed, shaking his head.
“I didn’t—” Conrad stammers. “That wasn’t directed at—”
Carter steps in close and claps a heavy hand on Conrad’s back, the force knocking him forward half a step. It’s almost friendly. Almost.
“Relax, man. I’m fuckin’ with you.”
He pauses, his smile sharpening at the corners. “Or am I?”
Conrad stiffens, caught in the space between retreat and defense, his mouth working like he wants to respond but can’t find the words. His discomfort sits thick in the air, obvious to everyone.
Quentin speaks, voice light, almost conversational. “Why don’t we cool it with the nicknames, C.”
His words land like a quiet click of a door shutting, firm enough to say, you’re not welcome here, not like this.
And Conrad hears it. Theo sees it in the slight shift of his brother’s posture, the way his smirk flickers, the way his eyes narrow like he’s biting down on whatever he was about to say next.
Quentin has always had this ability—to cut through Conrad’s epic bullshit with surgical precision.
But he chose not to use it for years, watching Theo suffer.
Silence grew between them like moss, thick and hard to shake.
There was a time he didn’t think he’d ever see Quentin again, let alone stand beside him like this, in a truce of sorts.
But the frost between them has started to thaw.
Not all at once, not with grand apologies or late-night phone calls or some brotherly outpouring of feeling. But a quiet understanding that maybe, just maybe, they both want something more than distance.
Quentin and his mother came to a playoff game in the spring—front row, eyes on him, cheering when he took the ice like they had always been there.
It rattled him at first. He had looked up during warmup, expecting to see Mila and Natalie in the stands, and instead found his mother in pearls and a crisp blazer, clapping politely next to Quentin like the rink didn’t make her nervous, like she wasn’t always half a breath away from disapproval.
But it wasn’t like that this time. She was smiling.
She was trying. And afterward, they’d gone out for drinks, all four of them—Theo, Mila, Quentin, and his mother—and it had felt strange in a way that wasn’t bad.
Like walking into a house he used to live in, finding the furniture rearranged, but the light coming through the windows still warm.
And now she’s invited him and Mila to his family’s annual Fourth of July party, the kind of thing he used to dread—all polished people making polite small talk over passed canapés until the third round of drinks turned tongues sharp, with his father looming like a specter over everyone.
She says things have changed. That she wants them there, wants to set a new tone.
But Theo’s not sure he’s ready.
Still, there’s something steadying in Quentin’s voice now, in the way he draws a line in the grass for Conrad without making a scene.
Theo watches the whole thing unfold, blood still simmering beneath the surface, but no longer boiling over. He doesn’t have to speak. Quentin and his friends have done that for him.
Natalie chooses that moment to saunter up, tilting her head at Conrad’s immaculate golf bag. “Wow, are these yours?” she asks, already reaching to touch one of the clubs. “They’re so shiny.”
“Please don’t—” Conrad sputters.
But Natalie’s already pulled one free, examining the leather grip.
“Monogrammed. How fancy,” she says breezily. “I’ve never, ever golfed before. Is it hard?”
Conrad’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“You must be so good at it,” Natalie adds with syrupy sweetness.
Theo’s biting his tongue, shoulders shaking. Mila buries her face in his shoulder, laughter muffled.
Jesse gives a mock golf clap. “God, I love team outings.”
Theo glances at Mila again—still grinning, still tucked into his side, exactly where she belongs. Her hand finds his, fingers threading together.
And for once, Conrad’s voice fades into nothing behind them.
They’re walking toward the first hole when Jesse yells, “Let’s go, Tilly! Time to show your posh brothers who the real athlete in the family is!”
Theo just grins over his shoulder, not bothering to deny it—as if there was ever any doubt.
He’s got Mila’s hand in his, the sun on his face, and his whole damn team here to make sure the world knows he won.