"Coming, Mom," Alder calls back.
As we head inside, I realize that the word "love" no longer terrifies me. Not when it's wrapped in this—family and belonging and the certainty that I am accepted exactly as I am.
For the first time, I feel truly, completely whole.
EPILOGUE: ALDER
FOUR MONTHS LATER
There’sblood on the ice. Again.
This time, it's Cappy sprawled on his back, red pooling beneath his head as he groans. Trainers surround him, but I watch Lena kneel on the ice in her scrubs, her movements calm and precise as she examines our captain's mouth.
It happened fast—high stick from a Buffalo defenseman, no penalty called, and Cappy dropped like a stone. Now, the whistle has blown, and all of us are standing on the bench, watching Lena work.
"She's a fucking miracle worker," Banksy mutters beside me. "Remember when Doc Bowman would have guys spitting teeth into a towel and sending them back out?"
I nod, trying to maintain professional distance even as pride surges through me. I fidget with my stick, covered in rainbow pride tape. On the ice, Lena extracts something from Cappy's mouth—a splintered piece of the offending stick, I realize—and drops it into a metal pan held by a trainer. She says something that makes Cappy laugh despite his pain, then administers an injection with practiced efficiency.
"Dental block," Coach says, appearing at my shoulder, tugging at his tie covered in rainbow hockey sticks–a newregular part of his game-day ensemble. "He'll be numb in about thirty seconds."
Sure enough, within a minute, Cappy is being helped to his feet. The crowd cheers as he skates toward the bench, where Lena gives him final instructions. When she turns to head back through the tunnel, our eyes meet briefly. Professional on the surface, but I catch the glint of something warmer beneath.
"Stop looking at her ass," Tucker hisses, elbowing me as we prepare for the faceoff.
"I'm admiring her professional demeanor," I counter, readjusting my helmet.
"Sure you are."
Coach shouts our line change, and we hop the boards together, all business once more. But as I settle into position for the faceoff, I can't help the small smile beneath my mouthguard. Months with Lena, and I still get a kick out of watching her work.
We won the season opener 3-1, with Cappy returning to score the insurance goal in the third period. The locker room was electric afterward, with everyone riding the high of starting the season right. I rushed through my shower, fielded a few questions from the media about our defensive strategy, and politely declined offers from the guys to grab celebratory drinks.
"Hot date with the tooth fairy?" Banksy teases as I throw on a T-shirt and jeans while the rest of the team gets dressed for the clubs.
"Just tired," I lie, avoiding Tucker's knowing smirk from across the room.
The arena has mostly emptied by the time I slip through the door at the back of the locker room. According to the disclosure agreement we filed with the team, Lena and I maintain strict professionalism during working hours. She handles other players' dental emergencies and recuses herselffor mine–not that I’ve had any–while I keep my hands to myself until we're off the clock.
Technically, we're still on the clock, but over the past few months, we've gotten pretty creative with our definition of "working hours.”
Light spills from her arena office into the darkened corridor. Inside, I find her cleaning instruments, her back to the door, still in her professional attire—black scrubs with "Dr. Sinclair" embroidered above the pocket in gold thread.
I close the door behind me, turning the lock with an audible click. She doesn't turn around, but I see her shoulders straighten and a slight pause in her movements.
"Dr. Sinclair," I say, keeping my voice formal. "Got a minute?"
"That depends, Mr. Stag." She sets down an instrument and turns to face me, her expression serious except for the spark in her eyes. "Is this a professional consultation?"
I close the distance between us, backing her against the leather chair. "Strictly personal."
Her hands come up to my chest, not quite pushing me away. "The disclosure agreement specifically states?—"
"That working hours end when the final buzzer sounds," I finish for her. "That was twenty-seven minutes ago."
"Was it?" A smile plays at her lips. "I must have lost track of time."
"Let me help you find it." I cup her face in my hands and kiss her, soft at first, then deeper as she melts against me.
