Epilogue Cal
Two years later
The rink announces itself before you even step through the heavy glass doors.
I stop just outside the entrance for a heartbeat, my boots crunching lightly against a thin, fresh layer of Boston snow.
Talvi Ice.
Her name sits on the sign in simple, unassuming lettering. There aren’t any flashing neon slogans, no corporate sponsors plastered over the masonry, and no grand, ego-driven promises carved into cold steel.
It is just a fact. It is a truth that stands on its own.
Two years ago, this place was nothing more than a dream and a series of frantic sketches she made in the margins of legal pads between morning skates and film sessions.
Two years ago, the league executives still whispered behind closed doors, certain she’d come crawling back once the reality of the “real world” set in.
They assumed she needed the prestige of the NHL to be relevant.
They don’t ask anymore.
I remember how her hands used to shake when she held her clipboard at the start of that final championship season. Now, as I look through the glass, I see her hands are perfectly steady as she kneels on the ice to tie a skate for a little girl who can’t be more than five years old.
Ivy has traded the sharp designer blazers and the high-heeled boots for an oversized hoodie with the rink’s logo on the chest, and she has never looked more powerful.
I’ve watched her learn this version of herself over two long, brutal, and beautiful years.
I was there through the endless permit battles and the stressful funding meetings where investors tried to talk down to her.
I was there through the nights she fell asleep with her face on the kitchen table, surrounded by blueprints and tax forms. I was there during those quiet, dark moments where the ghosts of her past tried to convince her she was making the mistake of a lifetime.
She never listened to them.
I still remember standing on this plot of land the first time we saw it. It was a ruin of cracked asphalt and flickering fluorescent lights, the building sagging under decades of neglect and forgotten dreams.
Everyone called it a mistake.
They called it a money pit, a sentimental gamble that would chew her up and spit her out without a second thought.
They underestimated her, just like they always did.
She bought the old east side community rink anyway, using the money she’d saved and the grit she’d inherited. She tore it down to its very bones and rebuilt it slowly, deliberately, with a focus that was terrifying to behold.
She softened what needed softness and reinforced what needed strength.
She turned rust and regret into something that breathes.
Into something alive.
Now, chaos reigns inside those walls.
Kids streak across the ice in oversized gear, their helmets slipping low over wide, excited eyes and their sticks clattering against the surface much louder than necessary.
Some of them skate too fast, fueled by pure adrenaline, while others barely move at all, clinging to the boards with white-knuckled determination.
Parents line the perimeter with steaming coffee cups and crossed fingers, a sense of nervous pride written into every tight smile and encouraging shout. Laughter bounces off the high ceiling, uncontrolled and genuine, echoing in a space where silence once lived for years.
Iveline isn’t “Coach Talvi” here.
She’s just Ivy.
A red scarf hangs loose around her neck, and her dark hair is pulled back in a hurried ponytail that is already slipping free.
She crouches on the ice, laughing softly as she untangles a small boy from a pair of skates that are very clearly two sizes too ambitious for his feet. She listens to him talk about his favorite player as if he is the only person in the world who matters.
She’s glowing.
It’s not the controlled, manicured confidence she used to carry into locker rooms and board meetings.
This is different. It’s deeper.
It’s the kind of certainty you earn only after you have the courage to walk away from everything the world told you that you were supposed to want.
She moves through the rink like it belongs to her—not because she holds the deed, but because she understands the soul of the place. She directs drills with an easy grace, calming nerves with a simple touch to a shoulder.
She teaches without ever making anyone feel small.
I lean against the boards and I feel something finally settle in the center of my chest.
After I retired, I spent months wondering if I would miss the game—the roar of the crowd, the weight of the captaincy, the sheer violence of a high-stakes play. My body still remembers the physical toll, the way the ice felt after a hard hit, but it doesn’t ache for it anymore.
“Stop staring like a lovesick idiot, Callie. You’re scaring the parents.”
Cash appears at my side, already grinning, already loud, and already holding a whistle for reasons that absolutely no one in this building understands or trusts. He’s wearing a bright yellow tracksuit that should be illegal in most states, but on him, it just feels right.
“You’re interrupting a masterpiece in motion,” I mutter, looking back at Ivy. “This is art. It’s community-based athletic expression. You wouldn’t understand.”
Cash snorts, leaning his elbows on the boards next to mine. “You? Talking about art? That’s rich. Someone has to maintain order around here, and clearly, you’ve gone soft in your old age.”
Before I can fire back a retort, Ivy looks up. Our eyes meet across the hundred feet of white ice. Her mouth curves into that familiar, knowing smirk—the one that says she sees exactly what I’m doing and has already filed it away for a later conversation.
She flashes her left hand, catching the light for just a second. The gold catches the overhead glow. My chest tightens, a familiar, wonderful pressure.
Engaged.
It still doesn’t feel real some days. It feels like if I look too hard or breathe too fast, it’ll all disappear like a dream. Like I’ll wake up back in a windowless locker room, my body aching and my mind pretending I don’t know that it’s time to stop.
I used to think the ‘C’ stitched onto my jersey was the only thing that gave me value as a man. I thought that without the game, I’d be nothing more than a ghost, haunting the hallways of retired legends and talking about the “good old days.”
But as I watch Ivy, I realize I haven’t lost my captaincy at all; I’ve just changed my team. My job now isn’t to take the hits so the puck stays in the zone for an extra five seconds. My job is to be the shore when her tide gets too high.
It’s to be the person who holds the ladder while she reaches for things no one else thought were possible.
I look around and see the guys—Hale, Cash, Nico, even Brick—scattered across the ice, helping her with the various groups of kids.
The ‘Boston Reign’ was just the locker room where we all happened to meet.
This?
This is the brotherhood that survived the transition.
We aren’t bound by a corporate franchise or a paycheck anymore; we’re bound by the woman who saved us from ourselves.
And it’s not just a one-time thing. Every single month, without fail, they find their way back here to this rink on the east side. It’s not because there is a mandatory schedule or because Ivy told them they had to.
They come because this place has become theirs, too. They tie the laces of five-year-olds, they chase the beautiful chaos of the “Learn to Skate” sessions, and they referee imaginary penalties with more passion than they ever show in the NHL.
Scottie’s voice carries across the ice from the benches, sharp, delighted, and utterly unmistakable. She’s perched next to Ivy’s father and she appears to be deep in an intense conversation, already terrifying a nearby equipment manager.
Maid of honor, of course. There was never really another option. If I’d suggested anyone else, Scottie probably would have checked me into a wall.
I glance at William.
Two years have changed that man more than I ever thought possible.
Leaving the General Manager position over a year ago had been the first domino; he had finally realized that being a father mattered more than maintaining a front-office legacy.
There is no judgment in his eyes today, no cold calculation of “brand value.” There is just curiosity, a quiet pride, and that subtle, careful humor he’s been relearning how to wear like a comfortable old sweater.
He’s listening to Scottie, really listening, instead of waiting for his turn to correct her or point out a flaw in her logic. The man who once made every single word a battlefield now smiles openly at Ivy, and for the first time, it feels… almost like home.
Beside him Claire, his wife, beams quietly.
She is as warm and kind as ever, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes glistening with tears that are perpetually threatening to spill—just like they did the night I sat in their living room and told them we’re engaged.
Ivy skates toward me without even thinking about it, her movements as automatic as breathing. She stops right in front of me, a small cloud of ice shavings hitting my boots.
“You’re late, Moore,” she says, her tone teasing and her eyes sparkling with a mischief I never get tired of seeing.
“You started the revolution without me,” I reply, mock offended, as I step onto the ice to meet her. “I figured you had it under control.”
She leans in, her forehead brushing against my shoulder for a brief, grounding second. “I always do. But it’s more fun when you’re watching.”
I kiss the top of her head.
“You built something incredible here, Ivy,” I tell her, and I mean it with every part of me.
She shrugs, trying to be modest, but her eyes shine with a fierce light. “So did you, Cal.”
I glance around at the kids, the laughter, and the beautiful, sprawling mess that somehow works perfectly. I look at the woman who walked away from a seat of power to build something that would actually last.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe we both built this.
I squeeze her hand, grounding myself in the present.
Whatever comes next for us, whatever shape our future takes as we plan a wedding and a life, we aren’t afraid of the unknown anymore.
A kid skates way too fast nearby, loses his balance, and crashes into a pile of orange cones. Ivy groans dramatically, though there is a smile on her face.
“Finally! Some real excitement!” Cash yells from the bench, blowing his whistle like a man possessed.
Ivy flicks her hand at him in a dismissive gesture. “You’re lucky you don’t have to go out there and untangle those legs, Cash!”
“Excuse me?” he calls back, puffing out his chest. “I specialize in high-level chaos management! It’s in my contract!”
I roll my eyes and pull Ivy closer, whispering into her ear, “He still hasn’t learned that we don’t actually need order here. That’s the whole point.”
She laughs. “He’s exactly what we need. He’s unapologetically stupid, and it keeps everyone humble.”
I shake my head, kissing her temple. “I love that about you. Your ability to find the utility in a guy like Cash.”
She smirks, leaning back to look at me. “And I love that you still think I’m intimidating.”
“You are,” I admit. “But only to the people who are foolish enough to underestimate you. And I learned a long time ago never to do that.”
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“I’m right,” I counter.
Across the rink, Cash shouts something unintelligible about a hat trick, Scottie yells that she is “legally allowed to coach if Ivy is unavailable,”—but none of it touches the bubble we’re in.
Ivy bumps her hip against mine, her eyes playful. “You know, I have plans for us. Big, loud, ridiculous plans that involve more than just hockey rinks.”
“Like getting married,” I tease, bumping her back.
She rolls her eyes, but the smile that breaks across her face betrays her completely. “Yes, that. Obviously. But also a life that doesn’t need to be perfect to be good. A life full of people who yell at me, spill coffee on my blueprints, and somehow make me happier every single day I wake up.”
“Sounds incredibly exhausting, Ivy.”
She shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “It’s called love, Cal. Get used to it.”
I press my forehead to hers. “Then I guess I’m all in. Every single day. Every mess. Every ridiculous moment you can throw at me.”
She grins, bright and victorious. “Well, you don’t really have a choice, do you? I’m the coach. I call the plays.”
“And I’m the one who executes them,” I murmur, closing the gap to kiss her. “Whatever you want, honey. I’m yours.”
Outside, the city of Boston hums with its usual frantic energy, but inside the walls of Talvi Ice, the world is just ours.
We’ve chosen love over the league.
We’ve chosen a real life over a manufactured legacy.
We’ve chosen each other.
We are two people who were brave enough to stop playing the game the world designed for us so we could finally start playing our own.
The ice is scarred with the marks of a dozen skaters, the kids are loud and messy, and the future is wide open in front of us. We aren’t waiting for the final horn to blow anymore.
We’ve already won.