Page 46

BONUS EPILOGUE

TOBIAS

I t's late afternoon when I walk up the steps to Lia's house.

Ridley told me to stop by if I wanted to meet the baby.

I mean, why not. The fact that I found my new place via the team's management was a godsend.

The fact that this place belongs to my new Captain's wife.

. .well. Fate? Or something like it. The universe has a strange way of connecting dots I never knew existed.

I'm not sure why I came. The gift bag and food dangles from my fingers, filled with carefully selected organic onesies that cost more than they should.

My palms are sweating slightly against the ribbon handles.

The scent of orange chicken and stir-fry makes my stomach grumble. I've brought enough to feed everyone.

I tell myself it will be quick. Just a drop-in, introduce myself, then I will go back next door and start to unpack what little of my life I brought with me to Seattle.

The rest is still in storage, waiting for me to decide if this place is temporary or something more permanent.

I guess that will be up to Coach Lennox and management.

Honestly, if I had a choice, I would have probably chosen any other team but this one.

Still, a trade is a trade and I don't want to think about the whys.

So, a polite nod and a gift bag for the baby.

I'll offer congratulations, maybe shake a few hands, then slip back out before it gets weird.

I don't plan to stay long. Just enough to be neighborly, to start establishing connections with my new team. That's all.

I knock, unsure what I'm about to walk into but I'm going to go with it. It's post-season and the perfect time to get to know my new teammates. Yes, tell yourself that, Groves, I mutter before the door opens wide, the sound of laughter spilling out into the afternoon.

The woman standing in the doorway has warm brown skin, long locs cascade over her shoulders, and a megawatt smile that I recognize instantly.

She's wearing joggers, a loose Coldplay band t-shirt, and no makeup.

Her natural beauty is striking, effortless.

She still looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine, even dressed down like this.

I blink, surprised. Brea Brookes. No mistaking her.

That's a face I've seen on a hundred screens, billboards, and album covers.

Singer/songwriter and an R&B icon whose voice has filled stadiums worldwide this year.

I didn't expect her to be here. Wait, right, she's Masters’ fiancée. The connections in this team run deep.

"Tobias, right?" she says with a smile that somehow makes me feel instantly welcome. "Come in. They're all in the living room."

I nod. "Thanks." I step inside the foyer, heart already kicking against my ribs.

I'm not one to shy away from new surroundings but something about this moment is giving me uneasy vibes.

Like I'm walking into something I'm not prepared for.

The polished hardwood floors gleam beneath my feet, my reflection distorted in their shine.

The house smells like lavender, warm wood, and something sweet scents the air.

Maybe cookies or cake, I'm unsure, but it's homemade and smells good.

This place is stunning, lived-in, and comfortable.

Family photos line the walls, plants thrive in sunny corners.

There's music playing low in the background, something jazzy and mellow and the soft hum of voices coming from around the corner, punctuated by occasional laughter.

I follow behind Brea as two big rooms come into view separated by the foyer.

I recognize Alexis on the couch in the room to the right, pregnant, glowing, and relaxed.

Her hand rests protectively over her rounded belly.

I'm leasing her house this season. We've exchanged a few words.

Nothing more than logistics, but it's nice to see a friendly face.

Then I see her. Sitting next to Alexis, tucked into the corner of the sectional, surrounded by pillows that seem to cradle her like she's something precious.

A baby is cradled against her chest, tiny and new.

She's small and curvy, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, and she looks tired in the way new mothers always do.

That bone-deep exhaustion mixed with a serene kind of joy, but she's stunning.

Effortlessly beautiful in a way that catches me off guard.

Her dark brown hair is twisted up, a few curls slipping down to frame her face, catching the light from the nearby window.

There's no makeup, no performance. Just warmth.

Just real. Something authentic that makes me pause.

The baby in her arms is tiny, swaddled in soft yellow fabric that looks impossibly small. One little hand clutches the collar of her hoodie like it belongs there. Like she knows exactly where home is. Tiny fingers, impossibly perfect, holding on with surprising strength.

I don't know who this woman is but I can't stop looking at her. There's something magnetic about the tableau she creates, this picture of new motherhood that feels both intimate and universal.

Then movement from the other room catches my eye as he walks into the room, a bottle of water in his hand.

I stare, trying not to give too much away at the sight of him.

Yes, we've been on the ice together but it's different.

You can't hash out years of baggage in between power plays and puck drops.

The fluorescent lights of the rink create a different reality than this warm, domestic scene.

I should have prepared myself, but of course life doesn't work that way.

Thanks for that, universe. Another cosmic joke at my expense.

He's moving slowly. Calm. Every step deliberate, careful not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere.

I know that walk better than I want to admit.

The way his shoulders set, the rhythm of his steps.

He crosses the room and stops behind her.

He places a hand gently on her shoulder, a casual touch that speaks volumes.

She glances up and gives him a look that hits me straight in the chest. It's tender, intimate, filled with shared secrets.

He smiles back, soft and quiet. Like he belongs here. Like she's his. Like the baby is too. The certainty of it is written in every line of his body.

Devan Scott. My stomach lurches. No. Not possible. Not here, not now, not like this.

This man. The one I loved. The one who left. The one who walked out of my life and never came back. The one whose voice I still hear in my dreams sometimes. He's here. In this house. With this woman. With this baby. With this whole life I knew nothing about.

And I'm standing here like an idiot holding a gift bag full of organic onesies, feeling like I've stepped into an alternate dimension where everything is slightly wrong.

She looks up at me and smiles. Her eyes are big and blue and full of calm. There's something familiar in her expression. Something grounded. Like she's comfortable in her own skin in a way few people ever achieve.

"Hi," she says, her voice soft but clear. "I'm Lia."

The name clicks. Ridley's sister. That's who she is. That's why she's here. The pieces fall into place with a sickening clarity.

I clear my throat, trying to find my voice. "Tobias Groves," I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Trade from Vegas. Brought some food and a little gift to introduce myself to the neighborhood." I hold up the bag awkwardly, like evidence.

She nods, still cradling the baby like the world outside doesn't exist. Her eyes are kind, welcoming.

I shift slightly and glance around the opposite room, nodding at the other guys Tor, Ridley, Derrick Shaw, and Bast. All of them familiar from team photos and game footage.

All of them watching in their own quiet way.

"Tobias," Devan says my name without an ounce of affection. It's cold and it makes me sick, this unfamiliar feeling between us. The distance in those three syllables could span galaxies.

"Moved in next door yesterday," I reply, nervously rubbing the back of my neck, feeling the short hairs there stand on end. The tension in the room is so thick I could skate on it.

Then Lia turns to Devan. She glances between us, a small crease forming between her brows as her eyes dart from his face to mine and back again. Yeah, I'd be curious too if I witnessed the obvious awkwardness between the two of us. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

"You know each other?" she asks, her voice gentle but probing. The baby stirs against her chest, making a tiny sound.

"We've. . .crossed paths," I say, but it feels loaded with so much more. Years of history compressed into three words that reveal nothing and everything.

Everything stills around me. I can almost feel the questions hanging in the air, heavy and unspoken.

No one asks them though. Thank goodness for that.

Devan doesn't move. Neither do I. We're frozen in this moment, like two predators sizing each other up, trying to decide if this territory is big enough for both of us.

Not that either of us has said a word about it yet. The truth sits between us, untouched, a bomb waiting to detonate.

I feel it. The weight of our shared history pressing down on my chest.

Eight years of silence. Eight years of resentment and heartbreak.

Eight years of wondering why he never reached out.

Give me something, hell, anything. Why didn't he call?

Explain. Why did I let him leave me without a fight?

The questions I've carried for nearly a decade, suddenly immediate and urgent.

Maybe this is my chance to finally clear the air. Maybe this is where it starts again. For real this time. A man can hope. Or maybe it’s where it ends for good.