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EPILOGUE
Three months later
“I still can’t find my good tie,” Brody calls from the bedroom. “The blue one with the subtle pattern.”
I smile to myself, continuing to apply mascara in the bathroom mirror. “Check the second drawer on the left. I reorganized your dresser yesterday.”
A pause, then: “Why would ties be in a dresser drawer? They go on the tie rack. The tie rack that was perfectly functional until someone decided to introduce ‘organization’ to my closet.”
“The tie rack that was holding a grand total of two ties while the rest were draped over your desk chair?” I counter, stepping into the bedroom where Brody stands, dress shirt half-buttoned, hair still damp from his shower. “Second drawer. Left side.”
He opens the specified drawer, eyebrows rising in surprise when he finds not only the blue tie in question but all his others, neatly rolled and arranged by color. “Huh. This is... actually kind of satisfying to look at.”
“You’re welcome.” I adjust his collar, fighting a smile. “For someone who can remember every defensive play in the NHL handbook, your organizational skills are surprisingly limited to hockey gear.”
“That’s because hockey makes sense,” he grumbles, but there’s no heat behind it. He slides his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. “Unlike women who move a man’s ties without warning.”
“I left you a detailed spreadsheet outlining the new organizational system,” I remind him, straightening his collar. “Not my fault you don’t read your emails.”
“I read the important ones.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Like the one from Coach Barrett about tonight’s team dinner. The one you’re nervous about for absolutely no reason.”
I pull back slightly, surprised by his perception. “I’m not nervous.”
“Elliot.” Just my name, but loaded with affectionate skepticism. “You’ve changed outfits three times, reorganized my entire closet to displace your anxiety, and you’re doing that thing with your eyebrows that happens when you’re overthinking.”
“What thing with my eyebrows?” I ask, immediately trying to relax my facial muscles.
“That little crease right here.” He touches the spot between my brows gently. “It’s adorable, but it’s your tell. What’s really going on?”
I sigh, caught out. “It’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
“It’s just...” I smooth an imaginary wrinkle from his shirt. “Last time I was at a hockey team function, I was Jason’s wife. Everyone knew me as Jason’s wife. The quiet, boring one who never quite fit in with the hockey wives. And now I’ll be there as your girlfriend, and people will remember, and compare, and?—”
“Hey.” He cuts off my spiral with gentle firmness. “First of all, you were never boring. Jason wanted you to believe that because it served his purposes to diminish you.”
“I know that rationally, but?—”
“Second,” he continues, “the Seattle guys aren’t the Phoenix guys. They don’t have history with Jason except as an opponent they universally dislike. And third, most importantly—” He tilts my chin up, making sure I meet his eyes. “You’re not coming as ‘Brody’s girlfriend’ any more than I’m going as ‘Elliot’s boyfriend.’ We’re going together, as partners. As us.”
Forty minutes later, we’re in his car—a sensible SUV bought to handle Seattle’s rainy weather—heading toward Roman Varga’s lakefront home where the team dinner is being hosted. Brody’s hand rests comfortably on my thigh as he drives, his presence a steady anchor amid my lingering nervousness.
“So remind me again who’s who,” I say, mentally reviewing the names he’s mentioned over the past few months. “Roman is the perpetually serious captain who’s hosting tonight.”
“Right. Team dad, despite being younger than me.” Brody navigates through evening traffic with casual confidence. “Dex Malone is our resident playboy—you’ll know him by the swagger and the rotating cast of models on his Instagram. Luca Moretti is our starting goalie, Italian, makes the best pasta you’ll ever taste. And Rodriguez is the rookie—crazy talented but the jury’s still out on whether he’s better at TikTok or hockey.”
“And Coach Barrett?”
“Old school but not in a toxic way. Believes in systems, discipline, and occasionally letting his players have personal lives.” He glances over with a smile. “He’s the one who pushed hardest for my trade when Richards called from Phoenix. Said he’d been trying to acquire me for two seasons.”
This is news to me. “Really? You never mentioned that.”
Brody shrugs. “Didn’t seem important compared to my primary reason for wanting Seattle.”
His casual certainty still takes my breath away sometimes—the absolute confidence with which he rearranged his entire life to be near me, without demands or expectations. The way he approached our relationship with patience after my return to his life, letting me set the pace as we rediscovered each other.
The way he looks at me sometimes, like he’s still amazed I’m really here.
We pull up to an impressive home overlooking Lake Washington, lights glowing warmly against the early evening sky. Several cars already line the circular driveway.
“Ready?” Brody asks, cutting the engine.
I take a deep breath, adjusting my dress—a deep green wrap style that Sarah assured me was perfect for a team dinner. “As I’ll ever be.”
A tall man with movie-star looks and an easy smile greets us at the door, balancing a charcuterie board in one hand while extending the other to me.
“You must be Elliot,” he says warmly. “Carter won’t shut up about you. I’m Dex Malone. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
“All good things, I hope,” I say, accepting his handshake.
“The best,” Dex confirms, leading us inside. “Fair warning—the guys are under strict instructions from Coach to not bombard you with questions, which means they’re absolutely dying to ask you everything.”
“They can try,” Brody says, his hand finding the small of my back. “Elliot’s an expert at deflection when she wants to be.”
The house opens into a spacious great room dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. About twenty people mill around—players, coaches, a few significant others. I recognize some faces from the team photos Brody has shown me, others from games I’ve started watching since moving in with him two months ago.
“Carter!” A tall man with sharp cheekbones and an intense gaze approaches. Roman Varga, I assume—the captain Brody has spoken of with respect bordering on reverence. “Glad you made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Brody replies, accepting a brief handshake that somehow conveys more than words. “Roman, this is Elliot Waltman. Elliot, Roman Varga, our fearless leader.”
“The famous Elliot,” Roman says, his accent faintly Eastern European. “Our new defenseman plays much better when you attend practices. Perhaps we should put you on payroll.”
I laugh, surprised by the warmth beneath his serious demeanor. “I think the team might object to paying someone to sit in the stands with a book.”
“You underestimate how much management values winning,” Roman replies with a hint of a smile. “Come, let me introduce you to the others before Moretti monopolizes conversation with talk of his grandmother’s recipes.”
As Roman leads us deeper into the gathering, I’m struck by how different this feels from the Phoenix team functions I attended with Jason. There, I was always hyperaware of my role—the supportive wife, neither too outgoing nor too reserved, careful not to say anything that might reflect poorly on him. Here, with Brody’s hand a gentle presence at my back, I’m just... myself.
Luca Moretti proves to be exactly as Brody described—effusive, charming, passionately opinionated about Italian cuisine. Rodriguez, the rookie, is quieter but observant, his youth apparent in the way he watches the veterans for social cues. Coach Barrett is a surprise—I’d expected someone stern and unapproachable, but the man who greets us with a firm handshake and direct gaze has laugh lines around his eyes and asks thoughtful questions about my work in technical documentation.
“Translation is underappreciated,” he says, nodding seriously when I explain my role at Nexium. “Taking complex concepts and making them accessible—that’s a skill. Rather like coaching, in some ways.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I admit, “but you’re right. Identifying the essential information, presenting it in a format the audience can understand and implement.”
“Exactly.” He seems pleased by my understanding. “Carter mentioned you were brilliant. Good to see he wasn’t exaggerating.”
Throughout the evening, Dex Malone seems to be everywhere—refilling drinks, telling animated stories that have groups laughing, charming everyone with an ease that speaks of long practice. But I notice something beneath the polished surface—a restlessness in his eyes, a certain performative quality to his charisma. As if the life of the party is a role he’s perfected rather than his natural state.
During dinner, seated at Roman’s massive dining table, his phone keeps lighting up with notifications he tries to discreetly check.
“PR department still on your case, Malone?” Roman asks dryly, cutting his steak with surgical precision.
Dex’s easy smile falters for just a second. “Just the usual. Nothing to worry about.”
“That’s not what management said in this morning’s email,” Coach Barrett interjects, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. “Seems they’re taking your latest transgression pretty seriously. Space Needle observation deck?”
The table goes quiet, attention shifting to Dex, who suddenly finds his wine glass fascinating.
“It was a misunderstanding,” he says finally, the practiced charm back in place. “Security overreacted.”
“To three lingerie models, a bottle of tequila, and what the report described as ‘inappropriate use of hockey equipment’?” Roman raises one eyebrow—a simple gesture somehow more terrifying than any shouting could be.
I nearly choke on my wine. Brody pats my back, trying not to laugh.
“When you put it that way, it sounds worse than it was,” Dex attempts, but even his legendary charm seems to be failing him.
“Like the yacht incident last month?” Luca asks with a grin.
“Or the charity gala where you auctioned yourself off without permission?” adds Rodriguez, earning an irritated look from Dex.
“I’m sensing a pattern, Malone,” Coach Barrett says, his tone light but his eyes serious. “One that management is increasingly concerned about.”
“It’s just... blowing off steam.” Dex shifts in his seat, discomfort showing through his usual polish. “No harm done.”
“Team’s public image would disagree,” Roman says. “As would the PR department.”
“What’s the damage this time?” Brody asks. “Fines? Press statement?”
Coach Barrett and Roman exchange a look that seems to communicate volumes.
“We’ve found an alternative approach,” Coach says. “Something that might channel Malone’s... energy... more constructively.”
Dex looks like a man heading for his execution.
“The team’s youth hockey program needs instructors,” Roman says with what I swear is the ghost of a smile. “Particularly for the younger age groups.”
There’s a beat of silence before understanding dawns across the table. Luca breaks first, snorting wine through his nose in his attempt not to laugh.
“You can’t be serious,” Rodriguez says, genuine horror crossing his face. “Kids? With Dex? That’s child endangerment.”
“Consider it community service with a side of image rehabilitation,” Coach Barrett says. “Three sessions a week, starting next Tuesday. The youngest group is four to six years old.”
“Four-year-olds?” Dex says, his voice rising an octave. “I thought I was coaching youth hockey! I don’t know anything about teaching kids!”
“Perhaps you should have considered that before the Space Needle incident,” Roman says without sympathy.
“And it includes a ‘Mommy and Me’ beginner class on Saturday mornings,” Coach adds, clearly enjoying Dex’s distress. “8AM start time.”
“Saturday mornings?” Dex looks physically pained. “Coach, be reasonable. I haven’t seen 8AM on a Saturday since juniors.”
“You’ll adapt,” Roman says with finality. “Team responsibility extends beyond the ice, Malone. Time you learned that.”
“I’m doomed,” Dex mutters, draining his wine glass. “Tiny humans with no coordination and their judgy parents. At eight in the morning.”
“It’s just one season,” Brody offers, though his eyes are dancing with barely suppressed laughter. “How bad could it be?”
“You’ve clearly never spent time with small children,” Dex shoots back. “They’re like drunk adults but stickier and with no sense of self-preservation.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Maybe it’ll be good for you. A different kind of challenge.”
Dex gives me a betrayed look. “Et tu, Elliot? I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” I assure him. “Which is why I’ll bring coffee to your first Saturday morning session. You look like you’ll need it.”
“Make it Irish coffee and we might stay friends,” he grumbles, but there’s a grudging acceptance in his tone. He glances at his phone as it lights up again, and something crosses his face—a flash of genuine weariness beneath the carefree facade.
The conversation shifts to safer topics as dessert is served—training schedules, Rodriguez’s apartment hunt, Luca’s ongoing feud with his neighbor over parking. But I find myself watching Dex with new interest, wondering what’s beneath the carefully constructed charm, what drives someone to seek validation through increasingly risky behavior.
It’s not my puzzle to solve, of course. But Brody has a way of adopting strays—from me with my trust issues to his teammate with his apparent self-destructive streak. I have a feeling Dex Malone might become a regular fixture in our lives, whether he’s seeking redemption or just more trouble.
Later, as we’re saying our goodbyes, Roman pulls Brody aside briefly. I can’t hear their exchange, but Brody’s expression shifts from surprise to something almost like gratitude before they clasp hands with the particular intensity of men communicating something beyond words.
“What was that about?” I ask as we walk to the car.
“Just team stuff,” Brody says, but his smile has a satisfied edge. “Roman was letting me know the team is aware of Jason’s history—not just with you, but with others throughout the league. And that they’re taking steps through official channels.”
The simple statement settles something in me—not vengeance or vindication, but the reassurance that patterns don’t go unnoticed forever, that accountability eventually arrives without my needing to pursue it.
The drive home is quiet, comfortable, my earlier anxiety replaced by a warm contentment that has as much to do with Brody’s steady presence beside me as with the unexpected welcome I received from his new team.
“They liked you,” he says as we enter our apartment—his lease initially, but increasingly ours as my belongings have migrated from my corporate housing over the past two months. “Not that I had any doubts.”
“They’re different than I expected,” I admit, slipping off my heels with a sigh of relief. “Less...”
“Hockey-bro stereotypes?” he supplies with a grin. “Yeah, Seattle’s built a specific culture. It’s one of the reasons I was open to the trade even before you became the primary motivation.”
“Is Dex going to be okay with this skating instructor assignment? He seemed genuinely distressed.”
Brody laughs, “Dex Malone has been skating on thin ice both literally and figuratively since juniors. If anyone needs a reality check, it’s him. Besides, he might surprise himself. The guy’s actually good with people when he’s not trying so hard to be ‘Dex Malone, hockey’s most eligible bachelor.’”
“I got that impression too,” I say thoughtfully. “There’s something underneath all that charm. Something... sad, almost.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Brody warns, pulling me into his arms. “Dex has built his entire identity around being the carefree playboy. Acknowledging depth would ruin his brand.”
“Everyone has depth,” I murmur, leaning into his embrace. “Even walking clichés.”
“Speaking of depth,” Brody says, his voice dropping to that register that still makes my heart race after three months together. “How does yours truly rate after tonight’s team introduction? Pass or fail?”
“Definitely pass,” I say, tilting my face up to his. “Though I’m still not sure how I ended up here—living in Seattle with a hockey player, attending team functions, offering to bring coffee to the resident bad boy’s kid skating class.”
“Life’s funny that way,” Brody says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Three years ago, I was in Boston wondering if you’d ever escape Jason’s shadow. Then I was in Phoenix pretending I wasn’t moving there partly to see you again. Three months ago, I was signing with Seattle because you’re the most important thing in my life.”
“And now?” I whisper, though I know the answer in the way he looks at me.
“Now I’m the luckiest man in hockey,” he says simply. “Because somehow, through all the twists and wrong turns and false starts, we ended up here. Together.”
“I still think you’re getting the worse end of the deal,” I say, only half-joking. “A divorced, anxiety-prone technical editor with trust issues who reorganizes your ties without permission.”
“Elliot.” He frames my face with his hands, his eyes serious despite his smile. “I would trade every game, every goal, every win just to have you challenge my grammar and make that little sound when I kiss you just right.”
“I love you,” I murmur, the words coming easier now with repetition.
“I love you too.” His hands trace gentle patterns along my spine. “Even when you reorganize my perfectly functional closet.”
I laugh, pulling back to meet his eyes. “Your definition of ‘functional’ is deeply concerning, Carter.”
“And yet you moved in with me anyway.” His smile is soft, intimate in a way that still makes my heart race. “Brave woman.”
“Foolish, maybe.” I reach up to trace the line of his jaw, still marveling sometimes that I get to touch him like this. That he’s real and present and mine.
“Definitely brave,” he insists, catching my hand and pressing a kiss to my palm. “Brave enough to give us a second chance. Brave enough to believe this could be real despite everything.”
We move toward the bedroom, my dress and his shirt creating a trail behind us. When we reach the bed he lays me down with a gentleness that never fails to undo me.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, eyes traveling the length of my body with unconcealed appreciation. “So goddamn beautiful, Elliot.”
When he touches me, when his lips trace patterns across my skin, when his hands find the places that make me arch and gasp—I don’t question whether I deserve the pleasure. I simply receive it, give it in return, lose myself in the connection between us.
His body presses me into the mattress, the weight of him perfect, grounding. I hook my leg around his hip, pulling him closer as his mouth finds that spot below my ear that makes me shiver. My hands roam his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath hot skin.
“Fuck,” he breathes when I rock against him, the hard length of him sliding against my wetness. His eyes, dark with desire, lock onto mine as he grips my wrists, pinning them above my head with one strong hand.
“Come on, Elliot,” he murmurs against my ear, his free hand working magic between my thighs. “I want to hear you.”
I bite my lip, a lifetime habit of restraint not easily broken. My hips move of their own accord, chasing the pleasure his fingers bring—circling, dipping inside, then back to that bundle of nerves that makes my toes curl.
“Don’t hold back,” he coaxes, his voice husky with desire. “Let me hear what I do to you.”
His thumb circles precisely where I need it, his other hand still holding my wrists captive. The position leaves me exposed, vulnerable to his gaze that rakes over my body like a physical touch.
“You have no idea what it does to me when you let go. When you stop thinking and just feel.”
The pressure builds, his rhythm perfect, his eyes watching me with an intensity that should be unnerving but instead pushes me higher. Sweat beads at my hairline, my breath coming faster. He slides two fingers inside me, curving them just right, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, I can’t help it—a half gasp, half moan escapes my throat.
But instead of submitting to his rhythm, I grip his wrist, stilling his movements. His eyes widen in surprise.
“My turn,” I whisper, pushing against his chest until he’s flat on his back.
I straddle him in one fluid motion, my thighs bracketing his hips. The hunger in his eyes intensifies as I hover above him, my hair falling around us like a curtain. I take his hands and pin them beside his head, enjoying the way he could easily break my hold but doesn’t.
“Don’t hold back,” I echo his words back to him, my voice husky with desire. “Let me hear what I do to you.”
I rock against him, letting him feel how wet I am without giving him what he really wants. His hips buck upward instinctively, seeking more contact, but I lift slightly, denying him.
I release one of his hands to reach between us, guiding him to my entrance but not sinking down. Just the tip, just enough to make him groan, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
“Elliot,” he growls, the warning clear in his voice.
I sink down an inch, then rise again, teasing us both. His chest heaves beneath me, muscles tight with restraint.
“What was that about my sounds?” I ask, circling my hips just enough to drive him mad. “Maybe I want to hear yours.”
When I finally sink all the way down, taking him to the hilt in one smooth motion, he makes a noise I’ve never heard before—half grunt, half moan, completely unrestrained. The sound shoots straight through me, and I can’t help the gasp that escapes my throat.
“God, yes,” he groans, his own control visibly fraying. His cock twitches inside me, hot and hard.
I start to move, setting a pace designed to draw more of those noises from him. I plant my hands on his chest for leverage, feeling his heart hammering beneath my palm. His hands find my hips, not guiding, just holding on like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored to this world.
The pressure builds, my rhythm perfect, my eyes watching him with an intensity that pushes me higher. I circle my hips, finding the angle that hits just right, that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. When I find it, I can’t help it—a half gasp, half moan escapes my throat.
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide as he watches me move above him. “That’s it,” he encourages, one hand sliding up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. “Let me see you.”
I move faster, chasing my release, loving the power of taking what I want. The noise comes again, unbidden, uncontrolled as pleasure crests through me. I tighten around him, my movements becoming erratic as the waves hit.
“You have no idea,” I gasp as I come, “what that does to me.”
He rolls us then, a quick motion that leaves me breathless, my back pressed into the mattress. He hooks my legs over his elbows, opening me wider as he drives into me with renewed purpose.
Each thrust pulls another sound from me, breathless little moans I couldn’t hold back if I tried. He shifts, changing the angle, hitting deeper. The new position draws another of those helpless sounds from deep in my throat.
Suddenly he flips me over, his movements quick and decisive. The cool sheets press against my heated skin as his hands grasp my hips, pulling them up and back. His fingers dig into the flesh there, sure to leave marks that I’ll press tomorrow, remembering this moment.
“I need to see you,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair. He pulls, not enough to hurt but enough to arch my back just how he wants it. The position leaves me completely open to him. I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against me, teasing.
And then he’s inside me, pushing deep in one smooth thrust. I gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the way this angle lets him hit places that make my vision blur. He stills for a moment, both of us adjusting to the feeling.
“So fucking perfect,” he growls, his grip on my hair tightening as he starts to move. His other hand slides from my hip to wrap around my waist, holding me exactly where he wants me.
The position is deliciously dirty, primal. I can feel my breasts swaying with each impact, can hear the slap of skin on skin.
He leans over me, chest pressed to my back, his lips at my ear. “Put your hands on the headboard.” I comply instantly, gripping the wooden slats. The position pushes my ass higher, my back arching deeper.
He slides one hand up to grip my shoulder, using it to pull me back onto him with each thrust. The new position draws another of those helpless sounds from deep in my throat.
His control shatters at the sound—his pace quickening, his own groans mixing with my breathless gasps. The bed creaks beneath us, the headboard knocking against the wall. I feel another orgasm building, faster than before, my body still sensitive from the first.
He releases my hair to snake his arm around my waist, his fingers unerringly finding my clit. The added touch sends me spiraling. When that telltale whimper escapes me again, higher and more desperate, he follows me over the edge with a hoarse cry of my name.
He collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest. After, when we’re both catching our breath, I trace patterns on his chest and find the courage to say, “I always thought that noise was?—”
He cuts me off with a kiss, gentle but firm. “That noise,” he says when he pulls back, “is what haunts my dreams. That little sound is my new favorite thing in the entire world.”
“It’s embarrassing,” I protest weakly.
“It’s sexy as hell,” he corrects, propping himself up to look at me properly. “And I fully intend to spend my free time finding new and increasingly creative ways to make you produce it. It’s my new hobby.”
“Hobbies are important.” I try to sound casual despite the flutter in my chest at his declaration.
“Absolutely.” He nods with mock seriousness. “I’m considering it my life’s work. ‘The Comprehensive Study of Elliot Waltman’s Whimpers: Volume One.’”
A startled laugh escapes me. “Volume One?”
“Oh, there will be multiple volumes,” he assures me, eyes dancing with mischief. “Different contexts, various techniques, seasonal variations. It’s going to be very scientific. Probably win a Nobel Prize.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I’m laughing, the last traces of self-consciousness melting away.
“Ridiculously in love with that sound.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “And the incredible woman who makes it.”
“I love you too.”
He kisses me again, “I want to hear that noise every day for the rest of my life.”
“The rest of your life, huh?” I say, trying to keep my tone light despite the weight of his declaration. “That’s quite a commitment.”
“I requested a trade to Seattle for you, Waltman.” His smile is crooked, confident. “I think we established my commitment level a while ago.”
And he’s right, of course. From that first coffee delivery after our argument, through his persistent pursuit despite my fears, to the city-changing grand gesture that brought him to Seattle—Brody Carter has never wavered in his certainty about us.
“I’m still not sure I deserve all this,” I admit in the darkness, giving voice to the doubt that occasionally still surfaces. “You upending your life, changing teams, moving cities. Just for me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He pulls me closer, his heartbeat steady against my ear. “You deserve someone who sees your worth completely. Who would move mountains, change teams, rearrange the entire universe if necessary—just for the chance to love you properly. The way you’ve always deserved.”
And in the safety of his arms, in the home we’ve created together, I finally, fully believe him. Believe that this is real. That love doesn’t have to hurt to be genuine. That vulnerability isn’t weakness but courage.
That sometimes, the most extraordinary love stories begin with coffee, continue through heartbreak and separation, and find their way home in the most unexpected ways.
That sometimes, against all odds and logic, love simply wins.
Even in Seattle. Even in the rain.