The room erupted in a chorus of'Awws'and cheers, and I felt Michael’s chest heave with a silent, shaky breath.
"But every season has to have a final whistle," McAvoy said, raising his glass high. "And after the run we just had, there’s no higher peak to climb. I’m officially hanging up the whistle. I’m retiring, boys. Not because I’m tired of the game, but because I’ve finally seen the story end exactly the way it was supposed to."
The cheers that followed was deafening. The Surge players lurched toward the stage, lifting McAvoy onto their shoulders in a chaotic, tuxedo-clad tribute. It was the end of an era, a final punctuation mark on a series of lives that had been intertwined by ice and grit.
As the music kicked back into a high-energy anthem, the dance floor became a blur of motion. Theo and Reese were spinning in circles; Hunter was trying (and failing) to keep up with Holly’s energy. It was a beautiful, messy culmination. These weren't just characters in a sport; they were a brotherhood that had survived everything the world threw at them.
Michael spun me around, his eyes dark with a heat that had nothing to do with the party and everything to do with the woman in his arms.
"He's right, you know," he murmured over the music, pulling me flush against him. "The story ended exactly the way it was supposed to."
"No," I corrected him, reaching up to trail my thumb over the line of his jaw, the jaw of my husband, my partner, my best friend. "The story didn't end, Michael. The prologue did."
He smiled that slow, devastatingly handsome smile that had first dismantled my defenses, and kissed me. It wasn't a weddingkiss for the cameras or a victory kiss for the fans. It was a quiet, private promise.
Outside, the San Antonio night was vast and warm, the stars stretching out over a city that finally felt like it belonged to us. We had survived the collapse, the doubt, and the overtime. We had fought for every inch of this happiness, and as the music played on into the early hours of the morning, I knew we were finally ready for the only thing that mattered.
The next chapter.
Epilogue
Michael
The Aegean Sea was a blue so deep and impossible it looked like it had been painted onto the horizon specifically for us. In Santorini, the sun baked into our skin, a slow, honeyed heat that made the crazy pace of the NHL season feel like a memory from a different lifetime.
We were lounging on the private deck of our villa in Oia, the infinity pool spilling over the edge into the caldera below. I lay back on the teak lounger, the salt air tangling with the scent of Kayla’s sunblock. For the first time in years, my body didn't ache. My mind wasn't running drills or calculating standings. I was just Michael Landry. Not the bench player, not the fixer, or co-captain. Just a man on a honeymoon with the woman who had saved him.
Kayla was stretched out beside me in a white bikini that made her tan pop, her eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of her shades. She’d been quiet all morning, a soft, contemplative stillness about her that I’d learned to read like a playbook.
"You're thinking again," I murmured, reaching over to trail my fingers along her torso. "I thought we had a 'no deep thoughts' rule until at least the second bottle of Assyrtiko."
She didn't laugh. She sat up slowly, removing her sunglasses and looking at me with an expression that made my heart do a sudden, familiar stutter-step.
"Michael," she said, her voice small against the sound of the distant waves. "I have something to tell you. And I need you to just... breathe through it."
I sat up, my protective instincts flaring instantly. "What is it? Is it Gabe? Is he okay?"
"Gabe is fine," she said, a small, tremulous smile breaking through. "But he’s going to have to get used to the idea of sharing his room. Or at least, sharing his parents."
My brain, usually so quick to find the open lane, stalled out. I looked at her face, then down at her flat stomach, then back to her eyes. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the white-washed buildings of Oia spinning in a blur of blinding light.
"You're..." I couldn't even finish the word. My throat had closed up.
"I’m pregnant, Michael."
The shock hit me like a blindside hit into the boards. My lungs stopped working. I’d won the Stanley Cup, I’d been named an All-Star, I’d signed multi-million dollar contracts, but none of it, not a single second of it, felt as massive as those three words.
"Michael?" Her smile faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of the old uncertainty. She reached out, taking my hand. "Are you... are you really happy? I mean, we’re older. We’re finally at the relaxing stage of our lives. Gabe is practically a man. We weren't exactly planning to start over from scratch."
I lunged forward, pulling her into my arms with a ferocity that probably would have earned me a roughing penalty. I buried my face in the crook of her neck, my eyes stinging.
"Happy?" I rasped, the word vibrating against her skin. "Kayla, I’m over the goddamn moon. I’m in another galaxy. I don't care if we're older. I don't care about the plan. I get to have this with you. I get to see you as a mother from day one. I get to be the father I didn't think I’d ever get the chance to be."
I pulled back just enough to look at her, cupping her face in my hands. "I have a ring and a Cup, but this? This is the only silverware that matters. This is the real trophy."
The relief that washed over her face was beautiful. She let out a shaky breath, her hands sliding up my chest to lock behind my neck. "You're sure? Diapers and 3:00 AM feedings and a teenager who’s going to have a lot of opinions about a baby brother or sister?"
"Bring it on," I growled, a sudden, fierce heat blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the Grecian sun. "I’m a pro at overtime, remember?"
