Epilogue
Jasmine Chamberlain
I’m supposed to be facing the crowd, but I can’t bear to miss Shepherd getting everything he’s worked so hard for.
I hold my breath as the clock runs out. He won.
He did exactly what he promised after the Carolina game.
He hasn’t lost a game since. The entire stadium roars as it becomes official.
My teammates are screaming, their pom-poms tickling my skin as they hug and shake me.
Confetti rains from the sky. Our school fight song plays at a level that is sure to leave my ears ringing for the rest of the week.
The press rush to the field, along with security.
I run toward the sideline, searching for Shepherd.
I’m sure he’s already been caught by a reporter.
He’ll be in interviews, then accept the trophy, and then go into more interviews.
We said we’d meet in the lobby after everything was said and done, but I’d love to catch a glimpse of him. To see him smiling.
The confetti blankets everything and everyone. That combined with the fact that we’re all wearing the same colors makes it hard to pick anyone out in a crowd. My heart sinks. I’ll have to wait until they call him up for the trophy.
It’s right when I’m about to turn back to my friends that I see him. Running straight to me. I rush to meet him, jumping into his arms.
“You did it!” I yell over the noise.
“I can’t believe it,” he says with a laugh, his dimples on display.
“I never doubted you for a second.”
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes shining. “For believing in me.”
“Always, Captain, always.”
He crashes his lips against mine. All around us, reporters and camera crews swarm, no doubt waiting for their moment with the Shepherd Kingsley. But Shepherd doesn’t rush. No, he takes his time kissing me. I’m breathless and blushing by the time he pulls back.
“I love you,” he says with a boyish grin.
“Win or lose, I love you,” I say, repeating what I said before the game started, a new tradition of ours.
“Win or lose,” he echoes before kissing me again.
The no matter what love we were declaring was about more than football. It was a promise that even if we failed everyone else, we wouldn’t be failing each other. And that at the end of it all, win or lose, we’d have each other to run to, just like tonight.
Shepherd Kingsley
I walk to the podium while a room full of cameras stares me down. My last press conference of the season. Usually, we sit at a table with Coach, but tonight I brave the podium by myself. The room is a sea of microphones and cameras, even more than usual, given the gravity of the game.
As soon as I step behind the podium, hands shoot up. I can practically feel the questions burning inside the reporters. I point at one to give them the go-ahead.
“Shepherd, your play tonight and really the latter half of the season has been spectacular. Do you attribute this success to the promise you made or to something else?” a woman in a royal-blue pantsuit asks.
I smile at the expected question. The promise has been brought up after every win it seems. They were waiting with bated breath to see if I’d make it through the season. I was too, if I’m being honest.
“Thank you. I’d have to attribute the success to my team that’s been working hard with me to keep that promise. And also the great support system of friends and family I have around me that keep me level-headed on and off the field.”
I think about my brother and his wife, who flew from Alabama to California to watch me play.
After everything went down at the Carolina game, we were able to talk things through.
We got to share about how the spotlight warps things, even simple things like nicknames, and I left the conversation feeling closer to Jason than I have in years.
Not because he wasn’t there for me, but because I didn’t know how to say what I was feeling.
Not only did he show up, though, but so did the entire Carter/Holt family. Every single one of them was decked out in Thrashers gear, most with my name or face on it. Except for MJ, who always wears Bash’s old number.
“Shepherd.” Another reporter gets my attention. I nod. “You set a record tonight for passing yards in the national championship game. Think you’ll give your brother a hard time about that next time you see him?”
I chuckle. A few weeks ago, that question alone would’ve gotten under my skin and ruined my night.
But not anymore. I know that even if everyone else compares me to Jason, the people I love most see me for who I am.
“Maybe, though he’s still got me beat with how many rings he has, so I might hold off a few more years. ”
I get a few laughs at that as I call on another reporter.
“You put on an incredible performance tonight. Does this win feel bittersweet knowing your team ended the streak your brother started?”
I sigh. “Respectfully, I feel as though our time in this room would be better spent talking about the game, not history. There were so many great plays tonight that this team put together. While I love the Thrasher legacy and that my brother was a part of it, those players aren’t the ones who just won the championship. We are.”
The room goes silent at my words. Coach walks over and slaps me on the back with a grin. “I think that’s as good a time as any to end this portion of the interview.” He tips his head to the side. “Go and celebrate with the team. I’ll take it from here.”
I grin and jog out of the room, feeling the lightest I’ve felt after an interview since I accepted the offer to be a Thrasher.
The media can keep their opinions and their comparisons.
I’ve got a family who cares about me, a team who just won the championship, and a woman who loves me, win or lose, no matter what.
Keep reading for a glimpse into our next heroine’s mind!
Marigold Belmont
“Yeah, take that!” I yell at the screen. After seeing Shepherd battle the media all season, it feels good to watch him stick it to them one last time. At least until next year.
Saylor dreamily sighs beside me on the couch. “Can we rewind to the kiss? That was my favorite part.”
I laugh. “I’m sure there will be some beautiful edits on social media within the hour for you to watch. I want to hear what Coach Bash has to say.”
“I don’t understand why you like watching the interviews, anyway,” Saylor says with a yawn.
Next to her, Aurora is half asleep, curled up in the corner of the couch we all smushed onto while watching the game.
Our apartment complex held a huge watch party in the lobby, and we took the couch closest to the TV.
Most people left once it looked like we had the win locked down.
A decent amount stayed to watch the confetti fall, but then things got really sparse.
I’m pretty sure both my roommates would be in bed already if it weren’t for the fact that we’re friends with both Jasmine and Shepherd.
I shrug. “I like hearing the questions the journalists ask so I can learn from them.”
I don’t tell her that I also have a love of sports thanks to growing up around my ex-best friend’s sports-obsessed family.
They showed me how sports always have a story behind them.
Whether it’s a team that overcame all the obstacles against them, or a player who came from nothing, or even the fulfillment of a promise made to thousands of people, there’s a story in every team in every sport.
And I love it. It’s a shame I don’t have anyone to share that love with anymore.
“Do you even want to be a sports journalist?” Aurora mumbles.
“I’ve considered it, but I’m not sure if it’s what I’d want to spend my life doing.”
That’s been the problem lately. Well, that and I can’t seem to get The Traitor out of my head.
If it wasn’t bad enough that he’s in all my classes and on the paper, he’s been showing up in my dreams and then in my writing.
Fiction is the way I process. Some people journal; I write stories.
And I guess my brain isn’t over the fact that Jameson Sinclair betrayed me because all it wants to write is stories with him as the male lead.
I spot movement out of the corner of my eye.
As if he was conjured from my thoughts alone, there in the lobby, watching the TV with a pen and notebook in hand, is The Traitor himself.
I scowl. Of course he’s taking notes. I would be too, if I hadn’t chucked my notebook during a particularly intense play of the game.
“I changed my mind,” I grumble. “Let’s go back to the apartment.”
Saylor sighs in relief and jumps up, then starts to pull Aurora up. While she does, I find my notebook by the TV and grab it.
“You’re taking after your namesake,” Saylor tells Aurora with a giggle.
I laugh, while Aurora looks as unamused as ever.
We walk to the elevators. The entire time, the back of my head burns.
And I know—I just know—that Jameson is staring at me.
What I’ve yet to determine is why. He’s the one who poured gasoline on our friendship and lit the match.
He shouldn’t get to stare or bring my lost book back or try to look after me at parties.
That’s what friends do. And Jameson Sinclair is not my friend. Not anymore, and not ever again.