I toss the phone onto the floor. "It was my agent."
"And?"
"He says I'm a lock. First round. The show."
A slow smile spreads across her face, bright and proud. "I told you."
"You did."
"So?" She leans down, kissing me softly. "How does it feel?"
I pull her back on top of me, settling her hips against mine. I look up at her, seeing my future in her eyes.
"It feels like I won," I say. "But I'm just getting started."
I flip us over, hovering over her, bracing myself on my elbows. The adrenaline is back, a low hum in my blood. The celebration isn't over yet.
"I'm going pro, Zoë," I whisper against her lips. "And I'm keeping you."
She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me down. "You already have me, Rossi."
"Good," I say, kissing her deep and hard. "Then let's celebrate."
OceanofPDF.com
Epilogue
Gio
The roar is a physical thing, a solid wall of sound that hits you like a check from behind. It’s louder than the Frozen Four. Louder than the draft combine. Twenty thousand people lose their minds at once. Three years. My gaze drops to my hands. They're taped up, bloodied from a high stick in the second period, knuckles split from a scrap in the corner. The jersey on my chest is black and silver—the colors of the Vegas franchise. The weight on my shoulders feels familiar. We're up 4-1. Empty net with thirty seconds left. The buzzer screams. It's over. The bench clears. I'm buried under a pile of bodies, gloves flying, helmets knocking. It's chaotic, violent, and perfect. We did it. We took the series in six.
I shove my way out of the pile, skating toward the center ice where the officials are waiting. The air is thick with silver andblack confetti, swirling in the draft of the arena vents. It sticks to my sweat, coating my eyelashes. Miller, our captain, is already there, grinning like a lunatic. He grabs the Commissioner, shaking his hand, then reaches for the prize. The Stanley Cup. It sits there on its pedestal, gleaming under the lights. It looks bigger than I remember. Heavier. Miller lifts it, turns, and holds it out to me.
"Rossi! You first!"
The crowd chants my name. *ROSSI! ROSSI! ROSSI!* I reach out and wrap my hands around the silver bands. The cold metal bites into my palms. I lift it. It's heavy. Thirty-five pounds of silver and history. I hoist it over my head, the strain burning in my shoulders, and the arena explodes. I look straight up into the rafters, at the banner that isn't there yet, and I feel the ghost of the scared kid I used to be finally fade away. The Rossi name is etched into this fucking trophy. I earned it.
My skates trace a slow circle, holding it high, letting the confetti rain down on me like benediction. I'm the king. I turn my skates toward the bench, the silver bowl still raised high. My arms are burning, but I don't lower it. I carry the weight toward the penalty box, toward the section where the family sits. The crowd is a blur of faces, but I find her instantly. Zoë. She's leaning over the glass, her hands braced on the dasher, exactly like she did three years ago in that college arena. She's wearing an oversized black jersey with *ROSSI* and the number 98 stretched across her shoulders. My jersey. The diamond on her left hand catches the arena lights, flashing bright enough to blind me.
I skate right up to the glass, stopping inches from her face. The noise of the arena fades. Her head throws back and she screams, a raw, ecstatic sound that I can feel in my chest. Her palms clap so hard they're turning red, her smile wide and unguarded, a crack in the armor that only I get to see.
"That's my husband!" she shouts, the words cutting through the glass.
I laugh, the sound ragged and genuine, and I press my gloved fingers to the glass. She slams hers against mine, the impact rattling the pane.
"Show them!" she yells, her eyes blazing with pride. "Fucking own it, Gio!"
I push off the boards, turning back to the ice. I hoist the Cup again, circling the center line, but the only thing I feel is the phantom heat of her hand through the glass. The money is gone. The name is mud. I have this. I have her. I won.
Camera flashes erupt from every corner of the bowl, a blinding strobe light that sears the retinas. Three years ago, those lights made me flinch. They felt like spotlights in an interrogation room, searching for cracks in the armor, looking for the scandal. I skate past the team box, my grip tightening on the silver. I catch a glimpse of the broadcast on the Jumbotron. The ticker below the score is talking about the *Rossi name*. My thoughts turn to my father. He's probably sitting in some dark study in Rhode Island, watching this on a screen he can't turn off, watching the son he cut off lift the trophy he spent his life chasing but never touched. He wanted a legacy built on intimidation and backroom deals. He wanted an heir who knew how to sign checks and crush dissent. What he got was silence instead. I haven't spoken a word to him in three years. The phone lines are dead. The lawyers handle the rest.
Then there's Rylan. I wonder if he has a TV in his cell. He's doing five-to-ten for fraud and embezzlement—the karma finally catching up to him. He tried to steal my future, tried to leverage my name for his own pockets, and now he's rotting in a cage while I'm standing on top of the world. The rage I used to feel is cold ash now. My gaze drops to the silver bands of the Cup. My name is etched there alongside the greats. It's sweat and bloodand the woman in the stands screaming my name. I look back at Zoë. She's still at the glass, watching me, fierce and unshakeable. They lost. I won.
The private club at the arena is packed, the air thick with expensive perfume, spilled champagne, and the kind of noise that only happens when you've spent three months grinding your teeth down to the nubs and finally get to let go. I'm sprawled on a velvet banquette in the corner, a glass of scotch resting on my knee. Zoë is on my lap. She's occupying space, her legs crossed, one arm draped over my shoulders, the other holding her own glass. My jersey is gone, replaced by a black suit that cost more than my first truck, but she's still wearing the Rossi 98 underneath the jacket. She looks like she owns the fucking place, and she does. My arm is locked around her waist, my hand splayed against her ribs.
"You're staring," she says, leaning back against my chest. She doesn't turn around. She just knows.
"I'm looking at what's mine."
