Epilogue
Why give an olive branch when you can provide orgasms?
BLAIR
Eight years later
“Papa!” Azora shouts across the field. “Will’s licking the ball again!”
I smile at our daughter.
I still love teasing Beau, “Hey, Daddy.” He sits beside me, trying to drink his coffee in peace. “That’s got you written all over it.”
“Goddammit,” he mutters, wedging his cup in the holder before climbing out of his navy folding chair. “Willuf Bronson-Hawke!” He shouts, storming across the grass. “Quit licking the damn ball and throw it!”
But Beau loves this. He loves watching our kids play, even if our son likes to lick the football instead of throwing it half the time.
Colt laughs on the other side of me. He’s always the pragmatic parent. “Maybe,” he wonders, “if we tell him there’s dog poop in the park, he’ll stop.”
Colt holds Val, our youngest, in her baby carrier, content and sleeping on her Dad’s chest while our oldest kids try tossing a football like their fathers taught them.
But when kids are seven and five, you’re missing a few buttons off your shirt if you think that’ll last longer than five minutes.
“Well,” I beam, watching the spectacle as Beau starts running after Will because Will’s fast like Colt, squealing and thrilled by the chase. Other Charleston families peacefully enjoy their fall morning in the park while ours turns it into training camp every time. “Beau’s the one who told him about the Super Bowl and thesweet taste of victory. Now all that boy wants to do is lick every ball, thinking he can taste the flavor like chocolate ice cream.”
It makes me laugh, glancing at Colt, who smirks back with that sweet, devilish look in his brown eyes. It’s the same one he gets when he pinches my ass or slaps Beau’s when we’re washing dishes.
Cupping our daughter’s downy hair, holding her close to his brawny chest, Colt leans my way. “Speaking of thirty-one flavors and banana splits.”
By the huskiness in Colt’s voice, as his tender kiss takes mine, he’s as excited about tonight as I am.
Aunt Vale is babysitting because it’s the parents’ night out. We’ve booked our suite at The Mercier. We’ll have dinner and drinks there with friends before we have a long overdue night of kinky games.
I’ve weaned Val. I’m back on birth control. I went shopping at Delta’s for new toys to spice things up.
But honestly, I’d really just love an uninterrupted night in my husbands’ arms. They need it, too.
Lately, Will’s been climbing into our bed at ungodly hours. Then Azora, like a Tawny Owl, hears him and gets jealous. She climbs in, too. I swear, Val is nine months old and the only one who sleeps through the night.
I tease over Colt’s whiskers, “Don’t forget to pack the whipped?—”
But in the usual happy hell of parenting life, we’re interrupted.
“Mama!” Azora stomps our way, making her long brown ponytail swish. Her pretty cheeks are all flushed, her blue eyes squinting and mad. “I can’t practice with him. He’s such a brat. He licks the ball to annoy me.”
“Your brother is not a brat, pumpkin. He’s a boy.” I school our daughter—our wise elder. “The difference is brats grow out of it. Boys don’t. They’ll always an?—”
“Um,” Colt chuckles, jumping in, “what your mother means to say isI’ll practice with you.”
“But, Daaadddd, you’re holding Vaaaallll.” Azora’s dancing on the edge of a whine. I’m glad I packed cheese sticks to go with it. “She never lets you put her down. She always cries.”
“She’s teething,” I calmly remind her. “You were the same way.”
Azora rolls her eyes at me, and I flick my stare at Colt. He looks back, cocking his brow, our eyes speaking without words.
You know—Parent Telepathy.
“Oh hell, no,” we agree. “We’re not raising snobs or snowflakes.”
That’s another rule in our playbook.
“Azora Celeste,” I drop my tone, “what did we tell you about rolling your eyes at us?”
“Don’t make me turn this car around.”
“Nope, the other thing.”
“Keep it up, and I’ll cancel your birth certificate.”
I snort, choking down my laugh because when kids have three Southern parents, they say the darnedest things because we do, too.
“No, Azora.” I hold my coffee like a chalice. Like I’m a queen on a throne, not a folding chair. Like I’m teaching our pissed-off princess how to rule the world. “I told you if you’re going to be a smartass, young lady, then do it right and look the person in the eye.”
Our daughter doesn’t want to, but she smirks.
I swear, she looks like Beau, all brown hair and blue eyes, but she has my sass and Colt’s big heart. She’s a good big sister. Her little brother just tests her.
Because Will? Our five year old? He has my black hair and Colt’s speed. But damn if he’s not like Beau, always planning a prank, always trying to annoy her.
Hell, Beau still does it to me.
Last week, he left me a sweet note by the coffee pot to check under his pillow. I thought I’d find his usual gift, a paper rose made from our books. But no. It was another note that read,
“Touchdown. I farted on this pillow. Love you!” Xo, Willuf
Don’t worry.
I got him back.
I wrote on his truck’s bumper,
“Please honk we see Forrest all the time. The kids worship their big brother.
And Reese? We’ll never be close friends again, but Beau and I have found the forgiveness Colt has.
Our lives are too blessed to be bitter.
“Damn, that kid,” Beau huffs with a smile, plopping back in his chair beside me. “I don’t care how it looks. We’re leashing him when we go to Disney next time. That cute fucker is fast, and I’m almost forty.”
Actually, Beau’s gotten hotter with age. So has Colt. They were just on the June cover of Sports Illustrated, celebrating Pride month and their wedding anniversary as the first married couple in the NFL.
And yes, I sent the kids to Ruby’s for a playdate the afternoon of their cover shoot.
Because when Beau and Colt came home, I put on my bridal lingerie from our honeymoon and made them put on their tuxes from the cover shoot.
No, their tuxes weren’t rentals, and yes, we ruined them. Because vanilla cake icing mixed with blue body paint and cum, stains fine wool.
Can I get points for that pun?
Sipping coffees, our gaze bounces from Will, whizzing down the sliding board feet away, to Colt, tossing the ball with Azora while Val sucks her fingers on her Dad’s chest.
“Look at her,” Beau admires our daughter as he reaches for my hand. “Our girl has a golden arm.”
Azora is the football player Beau said we’d have. And Val? Obviously, it’s too soon to say, but she sure does love story time. Will is the wild card. Is taste-tester a job? We’ll see where life takes him.
We soak in our dreamy, chaotic life, his warm thumb gently brushing over mine, before his phone in the side pocket of the chair pings with a text.
“You better check it,” I tell him. “It’s probably about the house.”
We’re remodeling a beach home on the Isle of Palms. Once we became so close to Zar and Nick, we bought a house near them. I didn’t want a place in Key West. We don’t want to leave the Lowcountry. Luca and Scarlett are only a few doors down, too, and Vale’s nearby on Johns Island. So is Ruby. All of our family and friends are close.
“It’s Ruby.” Beau smirks, reading his screen.
“What?” I ask because he looks guilty AF. “What’s so funny?”
“She’s trying to plan our Halloween costumes with The Six,” he says. “And she doesn’t want me to tell you. Like I can lie to my wife. But she and Eily Van de May really want you to be one of the kinky treats this year.”
“The little cunt candies,” I huff, shoving down my grin. “Go ahead. Play along. Y’all plan something, and I’ll act dumb about it.”
Dumb?
No.
The trick is on Beau. And on Colt, too.
Ruby, Eily, and I are going for the long prank. Of course, Zar and Nick are in on it, too.
The Six are Eily and Silas Van de May and their polycule. They host fun, family-friendly parties every month. I love our community of dozens now.
But it’s their adults-only events when we get shameless. Like every year, for their Halloween bash, when we plan elaborate taboo tricks and very kinky treats. It takes plans, plays, and practice.
The NFL would be so proud.
The National Fucking League, that is.
It makes me smile, cuddled in my chair beside Beau, holding his hand. I’m all warm and cozy in my old Atlanta football sweatshirt—the one from that Super Bowl.
The game that freed us forever.
Do we get haters? Do we get judged?
Sure.
But don’t hate back. They’re just miserable non-fuckers. So, whenever I can, I send our critics vibrators, dildos, and prostate massagers from Delta’s. Oh, and lots of flavored lube.
Why give an olive branch when you can provide orgasms?
“Damn, look at her spiral.” Beau’s in awe, watching Azora throw to Colt.
Yes, Colt has talons for hands. He can catch anything, but Azora has Beau’s aim. It’s incredible to watch.
“It’s in the blood,” I agree. “Maybe she’ll be the first woman quarterback to play for the NFL.”
Beau nods like he can see the future while he teases me, gently squeezing my hand. “You sure we don’t want another one? Eight more, and we’ll have an offensive team.”
“Hell, no!” I laugh, answering, “But I’m always up for some blue alien breeding.”
Like he can sense our loving vibe, Colt turns our way, jutting his chin all sexy before blowing us a kiss.
“Damn, our husband is hot,” Beau rumbles. “And I saw the two Lover’s Cages you bought at Delta’s. Let’s call Aunt Vale and see if she can babysit a few hours early.”
“Shedoesowe me,” I answer, feeling the same urge, the love, the need to just hold my men without a pile of kids on us. Though I live for that, too.
“Good job, pumpkin!” Colt praises Azora’s last throw. “But let’s get going. It’s game time.”
Of course, we won’t miss Forrest’s noon game. It’s playing on College GameDay.
Everyone knows now that Colt is Forrest’s father. With that and Colt’s marriage to Beau, the pressure on Forrest is immense, but he handles it well. Still, we only go to Clemson’s home games. Colt doesn’t want to steal the light from Forrest. He wants him to shine on his own.
So I start packing our family bag while Beau folds our chairs and calls for Will.
“Excuse me.”
A deep but shy-sounding voice lifts my focus from the orange slices I’m cramming in the cooler pouch. The voice gets Beau’s attention, too, as Colt joins us.
Our little family gathers around while a strapping teenage boy stands before us with a girl beside him.
“Excuse me,” the teen says again, “but aren’t you Beau Bronson and Colton Hawke?”
“Yes, we are.” Beau sounds wary, almost protective. It’s in his Dad DNA, but this kid isn’t a threat.
“I, uh… ” The teen stammers, but the girl—she’s got to be his little sister—nudges him with her elbow, so he continues, “My name is Josh, and I’m a big fan. I have your posters and jerseys. I grew up watching you guys play, and I want to thank you.”
Beau stands, his massive hand cupping Will’s little head to keep him still while his other hand shakes the teen’s. “It’s nice to meet you, Josh.”
Colt shakes his hand next, asking, “Josh, do you play, too?”
“For his high school!” His sister interjects. “He’s the quarterback! He’s the best in South Carolina!”
“But I hope to play for Bama,” the teen adds. Then he smiles, eyeing Colt, whose arm is wrapped around Azora, his other patting a waking Val. “Or Auburn,” Josh rushes. “It doesn’t matter to me. Either would be my dream. I just want to be like y’all one day. I’m gonna play for the NFL, too.” He stammers, all shy again, “Would you… Uh… Would you guys sign my ball?”
Warm, proud tears bite at my eyes as I stand safely nestled between Beau and Colt. As we stand as a loving family, smiling at the teenage boy cradling “The Duke,” a traditional Wilson football in his arm.
It’s the new edition made in their honor.
It’s an official NFL football emblazoned with a proud rainbow flag.