Epilogue
Zoey
Three Months Later
“YES! YES! DO IT AGAIN!”
“I can’t do it again, Morgs, it’s a replay!”
“I DON’T CARE! REWIND IT!”
I lean against the doorframe, grocery bags dangling from my hands as I watch my daughter scream at the television, pointing at the screen like she's directing air traffic.
Colt and Morgan are both slouched on the sofa… or theywere, a second ago. Now they’re jumping up and down, screaming and carrying on while the coffee table is littered with the remains of their 'dinner': two empty boxes of chicken tenders from The Leopard Lounge and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn sitting beside two glasses of chocolate milk.
On the flat screen, the Snow Leopards are playing Seattle.
Or, more accurately,Colt Laneis playing Seattle.
The replay shows him flying down the ice, a blur of purple and gold, his skates cutting through the defensive line like they’re all standing still. The puck is a dark smudge against the white ice, glued to his stick as he feints left, then spins right.
Morgan is still dancing as the replay shows, in detailed slow-motion, the exact moment Seattle's goalie drops too early, and Colt slides the puck into the top right corner of the net.
The Den on the TV erupts, but I think Morgan and Colt are erupting even louder.
“THAT’S MY BUDDY!” Morgan shrieks, launching herself off the couch and tackling Colt around the waist.
He catches her with an “oof,” laughing, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Wait, wait! This is the bit where I do the celebration you requested!"
Morgan stares gleefully at the screen as Colt finds a camera, look it dead in the eye before dropping his stick and starts to do—
"THE ROBOT! ARGH!" Morgan squeals and claps her hands in delight. "I can't believe you actually did it."
He winks at her and smiles. "I told you, when Colt Lane says he'll do something, he'll damn well do it, kiddo."
I smile, because ain't that the truth.
"Time forice cream!" Morgan giggles.
“We had ice cream last night, you goof,” he says, spinning her in a circle until she squeals. “We already celebrated my goal. Remember?”
“We need to celebrate again!” Morgan declares, her feet dangling. “That’s the rule!”
“Is that the rule?” Colt asks, looking over her head at me, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Absolutely,” I say, setting the bags on the kitchen island. “Section four, subsection B of the Morrison-Lane household code. All game-winning goals require double celebration.”
“See?” Morgan wiggles until he sets her down. “Mom agrees.”
She immediately drops into a crouch in front of him, holding out a fist. Colt mirrors her, their matching expressions suddenly serious.
“On three,” Morgan says.
“On three,” Colt agrees.
They count together, synchronizing the shake of their fists like a paper, scissors, rock battle. “One… two… THREE!”