Epilogue Finny #2
“I will personally destroy anyone—be they Board members, GMs, or aggressive toddlers—who causes you an ounce of stress during this pregnancy,” Dean says solemnly, then smiles. “You’re going to be an amazing mom, Scottie.”
It is, without a doubt, the most romantic and emotional thing I have ever heard Dean say.
Scottie actually chokes back another sob and hugs him.
Nico, predictably, loses what’s left of his mind.
He insists on being the godfather, the legal guardian, and the primary athletic trainer.
He starts a rhythmic chant that involves banging a wooden spoon against a cast-iron pot.
He is already looking into toddler-sized goalie pads and custom, safety-rated infant helmets for when the kid is inevitably on the ice at six months old.
Leo spends ten minutes trying to feel a kick through Scottie’s hoodie before she has to gently remind him that the baby is currently the size of a lemon and does not yet possess the leg strength of a professional athlete.
Noah, meanwhile, has been standing slightly outside the chaos for the last twenty minutes, which is very Noah. He doesn’t enter emotional situations so much as observe them from a safe distance like he’s collecting field data on a particularly unpredictable species.
He has a notebook.
Of course he has a notebook.
I catch him writing something down while Brick is arguing about goalie genetics and Nico is trying to convince everyone that a newborn needs a personalized training regimen.
“Noah,” I say, walking over. “Are you taking notes on my child?”
He looks up, caught, and adjusts his glasses even though they don’t actually need adjusting.
“Not on your child,” he says quickly. “On the group response to the announcement.”
I stare at him.
He clears his throat. “Okay, technically, yes. The child is involved in the announcement, but I’m documenting the behavioral patterns of the people surrounding the child. For future reference.”
“Future reference?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at the page. “I’ve already identified three primary risk factors.”
I blink. “Risk factors?”
He nods seriously. “Nico’s complete inability to recognize reasonable boundaries. Brick’s belief that all problems can be solved through volume. Jenna’s shopping impulse. She ordered something called a ‘designer tactical diaper bag’ while Scottie was still crying.”
“Honestly, that one feels accurate.”
“I know.” Noah looks relieved that I’m taking the data seriously. “I’m also concerned about Dean.”
“Dean?”
“He said he would personally destroy anyone who stresses Scottie out.”
“That sounds like Dean.”
“Yes, but the wording was intense.” Noah looks back at his notes. “I have him categorized as a protective variable with a potentially concerning escalation pattern.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You made a threat assessment for my friends?”
“No,” he says, straight-faced. “I made a threat assessment for your baby’s support network.”
A beat passes.
Then his expression softens.
“Which is actually a really good network,” he adds quietly.
That catches me off guard.
Noah looks around the room—the screaming, laughing, arguing disaster of people who somehow became family.
“I know we joke about everyone here being a mess,” he says. “Statistically speaking, we are a mess. A very obvious mess. The data supports that conclusion.”
“Glad we have science on our side.”
“But,” he continues, ignoring me, “the data also supports that the kid is going to be loved. Extremely loved. Possibly excessively loved. There may actually be a concern about over correction.”
I smile. “You’re saying my kid is going to be spoiled?”
“I’m saying the probability is approximately one hundred percent.”
I laugh, and Noah gives me the smallest smile. Then, because he’s Noah, he immediately ruins the emotional moment.
“Also, I have a spreadsheet.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s color coded.”
“Of course it is.”
“It tracks potential babysitting availability.”
I stare at him. “You made a babysitting spreadsheet?”
He shrugs, uncomfortable with the attention. “Someone has to make sure coverage is optimized.”
And that’s Noah.
He will never be the guy who screams loudest or throws himself into the center of the room. He’ll never be Nico with the wooden spoon or Jenna with the shopping carts or Brick with the ridiculous speeches.
He’ll just quietly show up with a spreadsheet, a backup plan, and probably an emergency supply kit nobody asked for but everyone will eventually need.
And somehow, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
***
Later that night, the cabin is vibrating with noise.
I find Scottie out on the porch, leaning against the railing, watching the beautiful, loud madness happening inside the living room through the glass. I walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her, my hands resting flat over the place where our future is currently growing.
“You okay, Mama Shark?”
She leans back into me, a tired, beautiful, genuine smile on her face that reaches all the way to her soul.
“I’m terrified, Finn. I have no idea how to change a diaper without making it look like a crime scene, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to try to negotiate the baby’s nap times with a formal contract.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, kissing her temple. “Team sport, remember? We’ve got the best defensive line in the city in there. The kid is going to be the most protected human in the world.”
“Yeah,” she whispers, turning in my arms to face me. “Team sport.”
For a second, all I can do is stand there and soak in the ridiculous, impossible, hard-won joy of this moment.
I didn’t just survive the Shark; I fell in love with her. I let her into the crease, and she made the biggest save of my life. Now, somehow, against every professional odd, we are building a family out of the wreckage of our pasts and the noise of our presents.
And as any goalie will tell you, the hardest part of the game isn’t making the spectacular, diving save—it’s the quiet, steady knowledge that someone has your back when the puck finally, inevitably gets past you.
For thirty years, I thought I had to be the wall all by myself.
Tonight, looking at her, I realize I have a defense I can trust.
This is the life.
It’s messy. It’s cold. It’s loud. It’s healing.
It’s perfectly, uniquely ours.
I look back into the living room, where Brick is currently explaining to a horrified, note-taking Noah why a baby’s first word should be glove-save instead of mama, and I realize I have everything I never knew I was allowed to ask for.
“I love you, Scottie O’Connell,” I whisper into the night air.
“I haven’t legally changed the name yet. Don’t push your luck.” She argues because of course she does, but a second later she continues, leaning into me with an expression that softens all the sharp edges of her face. “But for the record? I love you too. Always.”