Page 28

Epilogue I

Sophia

TWO YEARS LATER

I wake to the soft whisper of snow against windows and Blake's deep voice trying it's best to whisper.

Stretching beneath our plush duvet, I roll over to find my mountain of a husband sprawled shirtless in the window seat, cradling our six-month-old son against his bare chest.

"And when you're bigger," he whispers, "I'll teach you all about the ice. Just like your grandpa Eli taught me."

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our new mountain top home, Iron Ridge spreads out way down below us, like a Christmas card come to life. The stadium's lights twinkle in the distance, and fresh powder coats everything in pristine white.

Two years ago, when I moved to this tiny town from the big city, I never imagined this view would be mine. That this life would be mine.

A soft gurgling noise drifts from across the room.

Blake's fingers trace circles on Tommy's tiny back as she snuffles in her sleep. The same hands that used to grip a hockey stick now expertly handle bottles and diapers.

Who would've thought the fearsome Captain Maddox would retire at his peak to become a full-time dad while I took over as Creative Director at his beloved Icehawks?

“Plotting to turn him into a hockey player already?” I tease, stepping forward towards the window.

Blake smirks without opening his eyes. “You checking me out, Hart?”

Damn him.

"That's Maddox to you." I cross my arms, pretending to be very unimpressed by my stupidly hot husband. “And for your information, I'm just admiring my retired husband, who swore he’d sleep in for the first time in twenty years, but instead is whispering NHL stats to our baby at six in the morning.”

“Not stats , ” Blake corrects, voice still husky. He opens one eye lazily, amusement dancing in those steel-gray depths. “Just telling him how we’re gonna make sure he’s the best damn skater in Iron Ridge before he can walk.”

I snort. “Bold assumption, considering he just spent the last three months rolling like an overturned turtle every time he tries tummy time.”

Blake grins, finally sitting up, his free hand dragging me into his lap. “You doubt my coaching skills?”

“I doubt you’ve ever coached anyone with this much drool,” I say as our son shoves his tiny fist in his mouth.

Blake kisses the top of his messy dark hair, completely unfazed by the string of spit now dangling from his fingers.

"I dunno…" Blake hums. "Have you seen some of the kids at the youth program this season? I've never seen a bigger bunch of droolers."

I swat at his chest and lean in for a kiss. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, beautiful."

Our son scrunches his tiny face in fury, protesting whatever unholy level of PDA he just witnessed. I take him from Blake and hold him above my head, dodging the drool before it lands in my eye.

"And Merry first Christmas to you, my little man."

"Tommy said he wants pancakes," Blake says, standing up to wrap both of us in his big, protective arms.

"Then pancakes it is," I say, cradling Tommy in my arms and venturing out alongside Blake into our wonderfully warm living area.

The room is deliciously warm from our stone fireplace, where stockings hang in perfect symmetry - Mine, Blake's, and a tiny one for Tommy.

Our enormous Christmas tree nearly touches the vaulted ceiling, dripping with crystal ornaments that catch the morning sunrise. Presents spill out from under the tree in a sea of silver and emerald wrapping paper - Blake's idea to match our Icehawks-themed Christmas pajamas.

Tommy's onesie has tiny hockey sticks printed all over it, while Blake and I wear matching flannel sets with "Captain" and "Creative Director" embroidered on the pockets.

In the corner, next to Blake's display of retired jerseys, sits the antique rocking chair Eli gifted us when Tommy was born. It's draped with the hand-knitted blanket my mother made, its pattern incorporating both snowflakes and tiny hockey pucks.

I lean against our kitchen island, hiding my smirk behind my coffee mug as Blake attempts his one-man show of domestic excellence. Tommy babbles happily against Blake's chest while my stubborn husband tries to whisk pancake batter with his free hand.

"I've got this under control," Blake insists, even as flour dusts his nose and Tommy grabs at the whisk.

Our golden retriever Scout circles Blake's feet, tail wagging with an expectation of food slopping to the floor.

I've warned Blake three times about leaving the bacon too close to the counter's edge, but apparently, years of hockey strategy don't translate to kitchen spatial awareness.

"Babe, maybe I should-"

"Nope." Blake pops the 'p' sound, making Tommy giggle. "I scored the game-winning goal in Game Seven of the playoffs. I can handle Christmas morning breakfast."

The words barely leave his mouth when Tommy lunges for the whisk, sending batter flying across our brand new, and dare I say, pristine kitchen.

Blake's sudden movement stops his rhythmic bouncing, and Tommy's face crumples. The wail that follows would put any hockey arena crowd to shame.

Batter drips from the ceiling as Blake stands in the chaos, looking utterly defeated.

"I led a professional hockey team to the Stanley Cup," he mutters, trying to comfort our crying son. "How is making pancakes what finally breaks me?"

"My big, tough captain," I tease, finally stepping in.

I lift Tommy from Blake's arms, settling him on my hip where he immediately calms down.

"Maybe stick to scoring goals and teaching our son to skate?"

Blake pulls me close, careful not to squish Tommy between us. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Mmhmm." I stretch up on my toes to kiss away a spot of batter from his jaw. "But I love you anyway."

"And I love you too." Blake pecks a kiss to my nose that's so quick it's almost unfair. "Oo! Maybe we do presents instead! Before everyone else gets here?"

"Presents it is," I agree, unable to contain my grin.

We settle on the rug near the Christmas tree, Tommy nestled between us as Blake stocks the fire with another log. Then, he reaches for a large package with my name on it, but I stop him.

"No! Open mine first."

I nod toward a small box wrapped in paper covered with tiny pictures of Ridge the Icehawk's mascot.

Blake tears into the wrapping paper with one hand while keeping Tommy steady with the other. His eyes light up at the simple wooden frame, but then his expression shifts as he recognizes what's inside.

"How did you..."

His voice trails off as he traces the edge of the photograph.

Young Blake stares back from behind the glass, maybe twelve or thirteen, standing next to Eli outside the old rink. Both wear matching Icehawks jerseys, Blake's clearly too big, hanging past his knees.

But it's the smile that gets me every time - pure joy radiating from a kid who might have perhaps just found his place in the world.

"Eli helped me," I admit, watching Blake's face. "He said it was time this picture came home where it belongs."

Blake swallows hard, still staring at the photo.

"This was the day he gave me my first real jersey. Said I'd earned it after six months of cleaning that damn rink every morning."

Tommy reaches for the frame with chubby fingers, and Blake holds it closer so he can see.

"That's daddy," Blake whispers to our son. "And that's grandpa Eli, the man who taught daddy everything about hockey. And love. And family."

I lean against Blake's shoulder, remembering that day in the tavern when Eli first showed me this photo, helping me understand why the youth program meant so much to Blake. How one man's kindness had changed not just Blake's life, but the lives of countless kids after him.

"Thank you," Blake murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "For understanding. For everything."

The doorbell chimes just as Blake sets the frame on our mantel. Tommy startles at the sound, his bottom lip quivering.

"I've got him," Blake says, scooping up our son before the tears can start.

I open the door to find what looks like the entire Icehawks roster on our porch, their arms loaded with presents, bottles, and food containers.

"Merry Christmas!" Connor bellows, pushing past me with a tower of wrapped boxes.

"We brought mimosas!" Logan follows, juggling champagne bottles.

I spot Natalie tucked under Coach Brody's arm, both wearing matching holiday sweaters. Their story is wonderful, filled with forbidden love and workplace romance, kind of like Blake and me. She catches my eye and shrugs, but her smile could light up the whole mountain.

"Where's my godson?" Ryder calls out, helping Mia navigate the steps. She moves carefully, one hand resting on her slightly rounded belly. My eyes widen, and she gives me a tiny nod that sends my heart soaring.

"He's my godson!" Logan protests, shoving past Connor.

"No way - Blake promised me!" Connor argues back.

"Pretty sure that honor belongs to me," Ryder chimes in, crossing his arms.

I catch Blake's panicked look and can't help but laugh. "Told you this would happen. That's what you get for not being able to pick just one."

Before the guys can start an all-out brawl over Tommy's godfather status, Eli sweeps in and plucks my son from Blake's arms. "Yeah, well, he's my grandson. So all of you can back off."

The room falls silent before erupting in laughter, even Blake joining in as Eli proudly bounces Tommy on his hip.

The living room transforms into chaos. Wonderful Christmas chaos. Connor and Logan immediately start arguing over Tommy's features.

"Those are totally Maddox eyes," Logan insists.

"No way, that's all Sophia's nose," Connor counters, making faces at Tommy who giggles in Eli's arms.

I lean against the doorframe, watching them all. Natalie and Coach Brody arrange platters on our coffee table. Mia and Ryder curl up in the window seat. Connor and Logan compete to see who can stack presents higher without toppling them.

These people…

They're not just Blake's teammates anymore. Somewhere between that first masquerade party and today…

They became my family too.