So I kiss her instead.
She falls asleep first, her breathing evening out, her body going comfortably heavy against mine. I lie there and memorize the weight, the heat, the way her hand curls loosely at my side even in sleep, like she’s holding on without thinking about it.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m guarding something that could shatter any second.
I just feel like I’m home.
Eventually, the habit drilled into my bones nudges me toward sleep—the knowledge that dawn will come, that my body will wake up before the sun whether I want it to or not.
When it does, and I blink up at the faint gray light slicing through the blinds, my left arm numb from her weight, my first thought isn’t about practice or film or the next opponent.
It’s about the girl asleep on my chest and the fact that I get to spend another morning figuring out how many ways I can make her say my name.
The war is over.
This—her breathing in my arms, her “I love you” still echoing in my chest—is what I won for.
And I’m not wasting a second of it.
Epilogue
Declan
Thetunneliswiderhere. The lights are brighter, the concrete smoother, the air filtering in from the ice scoured clean by a filtration system that costs more than my childhood home.
This isn’t the Titans’ barn. It’s the show.
On the other side of the gate, twenty thousand people are screaming. The sound is different at the NHL level—deeper, heavier, a physical weight that presses against the glass. It’s Game 7 of the Conference Finals. Win this, and we play for the Cup.
Two years ago, a game with stakes this high would have paralyzed me. It would have felt like a choke point.
Now it just feels like work. Good work.
The rubber mats flex under my blades as I walk, each step a solid, measured clack. My gear feels heavy in all the right ways. My heart is steady. Not the frantic, wild beat from my collegedays. Not the hollow, numb thrum from the years running from everything except the puck.
Just strong. Grounded.
I roll my shoulders once. Pads creak. Gloves flex. My hands are steady.
Adrian—who got drafted to the same city, because the universe apparently has a sense of humor—is already out there, cutting lazy warm-up circles. He taps his stick against the boards near my glove as I approach, grinning through his cage.
“Don’t trip, rookie,” he chirps. “Your girl is watching.”
I ignore him, but the corner of my mouth lifts.
The roar from the stands swells as the announcer hits the pre-game script. The lights drop. The spotlight hits the crease.
I don’t step out yet.
I’m waiting for her.
It takes a few seconds for the security guard to wave her past the checkpoint. I feel her before I see her—like the air shifts, like the static in the tunnel focuses.
Then there she is.
Talia.
She’s standing by the wall just past the gate, exactly where she said she’d be. She looks tired—med school finals week is no joke—but she looks like the warmest thing in the building.
