Chapter 95 CHAPTER 95

Chapter 95 CHAPTER 95
Julian’s Pov \[EPILOGUE\]

The dark, subterranean tunnel beneath the River District Arena smelled of damp concrete, chilled air, machine oil, and fresh leather.

Outside the heavy steel doors at the end of the corridor, twelve thousand fans were creating a deafening, metallic roar that vibrated straight through the concrete floorboards, shaking the fluorescent light fixtures overhead. The opening night of the professional minor-league regular season had arrived, and the building was sold out to the rafters.

I stood in the shadows near the double doors, adjusting the heavy padded cuffs of my navy-and-gold Wolverines jersey.

Underneath my left hockey glove, resting cold and solid against the bare skin of my ring finger, was the forged river-steel band from Thomas’s metal shop.

My mind drifted back six hours to nine o'clock that morning, to a quiet, sunlit room on the second floor of the county municipal courthouse overlooking the frozen river docks.

There had been no press photographers standing on the courthouse steps. There were no six-figure floral arrangements, no hundred-person guest lists curated by estate publicists, and no contract negotiations over prenuptial clauses.

It had been just three people in the room: the silver-haired city magistrate, Fin standing as our sole official witness in his best ironed flannel shirt, and Jax and me standing shoulder to shoulder in our dark travel suits.

When the judge asked for the rings, Jax had pulled out the matching steel band I had bought him, sliding it onto my finger with a hand that was slow, steady, and warm.

We had signed the simple paper marriage certificate with the same fifty-cent blue pen from our kitchen drawer, legally, permanently, and irrevocably binding our lives together under the eyes of the law, completely on our own terms.

Fin had clapped us both on the shoulders, his eyes bright with unspoken pride, before pulling two lukewarm coffees out of a paper bag to toast us on the courthouse steps.

Now, standing in the dark player tunnel, I ran my thumb over the steel band beneath my glove.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the arena's massive public address system, echoing down the corridor like thunder:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... WELCOME TO THE 2026 SEASON OPENER! PLEASE WELCOME YOUR MIDWEST WOLVERINES!"

Behind us, the rest of the squad lined up in two dark, heavy rows down the narrow concrete passage.

Kowalski, our veteran center, stepped up behind my right shoulder, his face set in a hard, focused grimace as he slapped his heavy leather glove against my shoulder pad.

"Let's set the tempo early, Thorne," Kowalski grunted over the noise of the crowd. "Show these bastards what our second line is made of."

I turned my head slightly, catching the nods from the rest of the guys, veterans, journeymen, and hard-nosed rookies who had spent their careers fighting for every inch of ice in minor-league barns across the country.

I looked down at the crest on the front of my chest.

There was no stylized 'C' or 'A' stitched into the sweater above my heart. At Northwood, my father had paid for custom tailor-made jerseys and insisted on captaincy status before I had even earned my first shift.

Here, my jersey bore no special titles, no special gold trim, and no hereditary privilege. It carried only two things: the team crest on the chest and the dark block letters spelling THORNE across my shoulders.

I didn't need a letter on my chest to lead.

Leadership wasn't an executive appointment or a family birthright. It was earned in the third period when your lungs were burning, when your ribs were aching, and when you stepped onto the ice to take the hit so your line mate could clear the zone.

Fin had sent a text to the team group chat right after our courthouse ceremony that morning: The Ice King and the Mercenary made it official. Keep 'em safe tonight, boys.

The team hadn't made a spectacle out of it. They hadn't offered theatrical speeches or awkward jokes. When we walked into the locker room before warmups, Kowalski had simply walked up to our stalls, knocked his knuckles hard against the wooden bench, and said, "Good for you two. Now let's go win a game."

They respected us not because of where we came from, but because of who we were when the puck dropped.

The main arena lights went down, plunging the tunnel into near-total pitch darkness, save for the blue perimeter LEDs lining the ice entrance.

The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, a wall of raw, vibrating sound that pulsed against my eardrums. The heavy steel double doors at the end of the passage swung open, revealing the bright, glowing white sheet of ice just thirty feet away.

Jax stepped up directly beside me in the shadow of the doorframe.

His broad, tall frame blocked out the cold draft coming off the rink. In the dim blue light, his dark eyes found mine, burning with that fierce, unshakeable iron resolve that had anchored me through every storm of the past year.

Without a word, Jax reached out in the pitch black of the tunnel.

He didn't care about the arena cameras mounted near the doorway. He didn't care about the officials standing ten feet away or the scouts sitting in the lower bowl.

He slid his heavy hockey glove off his right hand, reached over, and locked his bare fingers tightly with mine.

The steel band on his finger pressed solid and warm against my own.

He squeezed my hand with a slow, powerful grip, a silent, sacred seal that carried twelve months of secret corridors, hospital rooms, river road trips, and court papers.

"Ready, Mr. Miller-Thorne?" Jax growled softly into the dark, his voice low, rough, and rich with a fierce, quiet pride.

A slow, brilliant smile broke across my face, a smile born of total, absolute freedom.

"Ready, husband," I whispered back.

Jax let out a short, dark chuckle, squeezing my hand one last time before pulling his glove back on and gripping his dark Sherwood stick.

The spotlight hit the tunnel entrance, illuminating the swirling clouds of ice mist rising from the fresh sheet.

"STARTING AT FORWARD... NUMBER 19, JAXOM MILLER! AND NUMBER 10, JULIAN THORNE!"

We stepped out of the dark tunnel together, our steel skate blades striking the pristine, glowing surface of the ice in perfect, simultaneous synchronization.

The arena erupted into a blinding wall of white light, thunderous cheers, and stomping boots that shook the steel rafters.

The cold air hit my face like a baptism. The pale silver scar on my left cheekbone caught the arena lights, gleaming clear and proud for twelve thousand people to see. There were no masks left to wear, no secrets left to hide, and no past left to run from.

We glided toward the center red line, the ice popping crisply under our strides, our shadows overlapping on the freshly Zamboni-cleared sheet.

I looked over at Jax. He was gliding right beside me, his jaw set, his dark eyes locked on the puck dropping from the linesman’s hand, his broad shoulders squared against the open rink.

He turned his head for a fraction of a second, catching my eye, and gave me a sharp, knowing nod.

The engine was running. The legacy was ours. And as the whistle blew and the game began, we took the ice together, unbroken, sovereign, and finally, beautifully free.

Here is a heartfelt Author’s Note that closes out the book, celebrates the end of Jax and Julian's journey, and gives Julie Boston the beautiful, deeply deserved tribute she earned.

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A/N: We made it to the end.

When I first started writing Jax and Julian’s story, I thought it was going to be easy.., I thought wrong. But at long last we get to see them step onto that fresh, glowing ice in Chapter 95 as free, sovereign men (and officially married!) fills my heart in a way I can hardly put into words.

To every single person who read a chapter, subscribed, liked, left a comment, and even the silent readers, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.

A Very Special Dedication: To Julie Boston

I need to share a small secret with all of you.

Back when this book hit Chapter 39, I almost gave up on it entirely. The story wasn't getting traction, the numbers were low, and I genuinely felt like I was writing into an empty void. I had stopped updating and was ready to walk away.

Then, I logged on and saw two comments, urging me to keep going. I told myself, "Even if it’s just for one person, I’m going to finish this."

That "one person" turned out to be Julie Boston.

Julie, I don't know if you realize the absolute magnitude of what you did for this book. Ever since I started re-uploading, you have been here for every single step of the journey. Out of the eighty-plus comments on this book, you personally wrote nearly seventy of them. You left two, three, sometimes more comments on every single chapter, cheering for Jax, fighting for Julian, screaming at the villains, and, yes, single-handedly lobbying for the wedding ring that ended up in Chapter 95!

You didn't just read this story, you championed it. You were the light in the tunnel when I felt like stopping, and your unwavering belief in these characters is the direct reason Chapter 40 through Chapter 95 exist today.

This final chapter, and this entire book's completion, is dedicated to you, Julie. Thank you for reading, for commenting, for believing, and for walking all ninety-five chapters alongside me.

To everyone: Thank you for being part of Jax and Julian’s world. The ice is theirs, the legacy is forged, and as always, the engine is running.

All my love and gratitude.