Epilogue
Sabrina
One Year Later
Tucker walks ahead of me into the private box at TD Garden. He’s holding a squirming Jamie in his arms, but her efforts to wiggle out of his grip are futile, because her daddy’s strong as fuck. Ever since she started walking, she’s demanding to go everywhere on her own two little feet. And she’s frickin’ fast. I swear, I turn my head and the kid is gone. Lately I’ve been rethinking my opinion on parents who leash their children.
“Sorry we’re late,” Tucker tells the room.
Several heads turn in our direction. I don’t recognize half the people in this executive suite, but the ones I do recognize bring a happy smile to my lips.
“You’re here!” Grace jumps up from her seat and races over to us. “Logan is going to be so psyched that you made it.”
“We almost didn’t,” Tucker says ruefully. He ruffles our daughter’s reddish-brown hair. “The little princess couldn’t decide which uncle’s jersey she wanted to wear.”
“Ha,” I say with a snort. “She couldn’t decide?” I give Grace a warm hug and then turn to do the same to Hannah, who’s wandered over to say hi. “Tuck is the one who was moaning and griping about it.”
“And yet you chose neither,” Hannah points out, grinning at Jamie’s pink hockey jersey, which has the words “Daddy’s Girl” stitched onto the back.
Custom-made, of course. Tucker likes to get things custom-made. Probably because the ridiculous shit he comes up with in his head isn’t available to normal consumers.
“She’ll start alternating,” Tucker promises. “One game she’ll wear G’s jersey, the next she’ll wear Logan’s. Hey, Jean. Good to see you.” He steps forward to hug Logan’s mother, who is beaming with pride.
I don’t blame her. Her son is about to make his debut in the pros, after spending a year playing for something Tuck calls the ‘farm team.’ I still haven’t bothered to study up on hockey. I’m too busy working my butt off in my second year at Harvard. Somehow, I managed to make it through my first year without having a nervous breakdown. I even made Law Review, much to Lettuce Head’s—aka Kale’s—dismay.
Tucker’s doing well too. The bar turned a bigger profit in its first year than either of us had expected. Some of the money was set aside for a college fund for Jamie, but he’s planning on investing the rest in a second location. Downtown, this time, which will either be a huge bust or a smashing success. I have faith in my man, so I’m going with the second one.
“Sugar,” Tucker curses, his gaze shifting to the huge window that overlooks the arena. “The game’s already started?”
“Only two minutes into the first period,” Hannah assures him. “Logan hasn’t even played a shift yet.”
“He might not play at all,” Grace says glumly. “He warned me they might not give him any ice time.”
“Of course they will,” Jean declares. “He’s a superstar.”
I hide a smile behind my hand. Yeah. I know what it’s like to be a proud mother. Jamie said her first word last week—“Boo,” and yes, it fucking counts as a word—and I damn near shouted it from the rooftops. I recorded her saying it three times and then sent the video off to Tucker’s mom, who immediately called me up and we spent thirty minutes raving about how smart she is.
Mama Tucker and I have gotten along splendidly ever since she accepted that I love her son and that I’m not going anywhere. I’m not sure if it’ll still be the case when she moves to Boston next spring. I’m a bit nervous about having her close by, but after Jamie’s first birthday, which Mrs. Tucker wasn’t there for, Tuck’s mom decided that she simply cannot stand to be so far away from her precious granddaughter. She’s saving up some more money first, and then she’s moving east to open her own hair salon. Tucker, of course, is insisting on providing the capital for it.
My soon-to-be husband is a saint. When he proposed after the small birthday party we threw for Jamie, I almost said no. Sometimes it scares me how incredible this man is. I’m terrified that I’m somehow going to screw this up, but Tucker constantly reminds me that this is it. He and I are it. Forever.
“Where’s Dean?” I ask, searching the room for his blond head.
“He couldn’t have made it in time,” Hannah explains. “He coaches the girls’ hockey team at his school and they practice Tuesday and Thursday evenings.”