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His lips pressed to mine. Soft and searching at first, before morphing into something more desperate, like our bodies were recognizing how close we’d come to not being together.

How the hell had I ever wondered if this was real?

Or thought I was somehow stronger alone?

“I found the other piece of my heart in you, Sunshine. I want it all, the fairytale happily ever after.” Saltiness burst onto my tongue, the tears streaming down my face interfering with our kiss. “You don’t have to cry, darlin’,” he said softly, pulling away.

“Oh yes I do.” My mouth found his again. The tears were from happiness, and I doubted they would be stopping anytime soon. “I love you, Thatcher.”

EPILOGUE: DALTON

POP THE CHAMPAGNE AND DON’T THINK ABOUT IF THIS IS STICKY…

Months Later…clearly.

The final period of the Stanley Cup Final was electric.

The air crackled with tension and excitement. Fans of both teams roared, their collective energy vibrating through the boards and up into my chest.

Stars Arena was alive. It felt like all of San Jose was here tonight to witness game seven.

The score was tied, 2-2, with just under a minute left on the clock. Every muscle in my body hummed with adrenaline, trying to fight off the exhaustion, but fuck stopping now. Not when the cup was this close.

I glanced toward the bench, my attention snagging on Ari, her dark eyes focused, shouting directions with Monroe next to her. I chuckled. Her job title might have been strength and conditioning coach, but damn was she a good unofficial assistant coach when it was game time.

She claimed it was because she was forced to live with “the star center,” so she couldn’t help herself during a game. Her tailored suit coat moved as she gestured. The number 55 was stitched on the back of this one, too, but I’d made one special addition, and THATCHER ran across the top of her shoulder in a soft blue, matching my jersey.

“Focus,” Jimenez growled beside me as we lined up for the faceoff. “We’re taking this.”

I grinned, my mouthguard flashing. “Damn right, we are.”

The puck dropped.

The ice beneath my skates was slick, cold, and unforgiving as I lunged forward, swiping it cleanly and shooting it to Hogan. He darted down the boards, but Nashville’s defense closed in like a pack of wolves. I shadowed him, weaving through the chaos, the seconds ticking down.

Twenty seconds.

The puck snapped loose from Hogan’s stick, skittering across the blue line. Jimenez charged in, muscling through two Nashville players, and sent it my way. I caught it clean, and for a split second, everything went silent. The noise of the crowd, the players shouting—it all faded as I locked eyes on the net.

Ten seconds.

I wound up and fired, the puck sailing, slipping past the goalie’s glove and slamming into the back of the net.

The arena exploded, and it felt like my heart stopped.

The buzzer sounded.

I just stood there, letting the noise wash over me. Then Jimenez barreled into me. “We won the fucking Stanley Cup,” he screamed, knocking me into the boards as our teammates piled on.

As soon as I broke free, my eyes searched for her.

She wasn’t shouting anymore, she was beaming, her hands pressed to the sides of her face as tears spilled down her cheeks. Her suit coat gleamed under the arena lights, and I couldn’t help it. I skated right to her, tossing my helmet, wrapping my arms around her waist and lifting her off the ground, spinning us in a circle.

“We did it,” I whispered against her ear, my breath ragged from the effort and the pure joy coursing through me. “We fucking did it, Sunshine.”

She laughed, her hands gripping my shoulders as she looked down at me, her smile radiant. “You did it, Thatcher. You deserve this.”

“I deserve you,” I countered, my lips brushing her temple before I set her down.