EPILOGUE #2
He walks away with great purpose in the wrong direction.
Darius watches him go.
“Ancient history?” I ask quietly.
“That was his claim.”
“She looked good.”
“She always was.”
I glance at him.
He catches it.
“What?”
“You know more.”
“I know enough not to say it at a fundraiser.”
“Character growth.”
“I’m surrounded by it.”
He pulls me gently toward the old goalpost at the far side of the field, away from the snack table and Colton’s sticker campaign and Nathan’s cone-based avoidance.
The grass is warm under my sandals. Kids shout behind us. Someone starts a chant. A whistle blows. The world feels full and ordinary, which is exactly why my chest aches.
Darius stops near the goalpost.
The same one where he once told me Briarwood gave him everything, and maybe that was why it was hard to feel like he had ever paid it back.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small wrapped frame.
“Oh no,” I say.
His smile is immediate. “That’s a strong response to a gift.”
“I’m emotionally suspicious.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Is it embarrassing?”
“No.”
“Worse. Is it heartfelt?”
“Unfortunately.”
I take it carefully.
The paper is blue, tied with a piece of yellow ribbon. Not fancy. Briarwood neat.
I unwrap it.
Inside is a framed still from my halftime feature.
Briarwood FC under summer lights.
Kids on the field.
The Kings banner crooked in the background.
Darius stands near the sideline, half turned toward Coach Miller, not posing, not performing. The image is wide enough to hold the place, not just him.
Loved.
Not polished.
Loved.
My throat tightens.
I turn it over.
On the back, in Darius’s handwriting:
The first person who saw the whole story.
My laugh breaks halfway out.
“Terrible,” I say.
His eyes soften. “Very bad?”
“Devastating.”
“I’ll take it.”
I look at the photo again because looking at him may make the ache spill over.
“I didn’t see the whole story at first.”
“No.”
“I wanted the headline.”
“I know.”
“I still like headlines.”
“I know that too.”
I glance up. “They’re useful.”
“They are.”
“They help people look.”
Darius steps closer. “And heartstrings?”
I swallow.
“They help people care after they do.”
His face changes.
Just a little.
Enough.
I run my thumb along the edge of the frame. “I used to think the best story was the one people couldn’t look away from. Now I think it’s the one that lets people recognize themselves without feeling used.”
Darius is quiet for a moment.
Then he says, “That sounds like a headline.”
I shake my head. “No. It sounds like a life.”
He smiles.
Slow.
Warm.
Mine.
The kind of smile he never gave cameras because it was never meant to belong to them.
He reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The field noise keeps going around us: kids yelling, parents laughing, Colton loudly denying something, Morgan loudly not believing him.
Nothing pauses for us.
That makes it better.
“I love you,” Darius says.
Not for the first time.
Still like it matters every time.
“I love you too.”
He kisses me near the old goalpost while someone in the background yells, “Hot dogs are ready!” and a soccer ball rolls gently into my ankle.
It is not cinematic in the polished broadcast sense.
It is better.
Messy.
Warm.
Public enough to be real.
Private enough to belong to us.
When he pulls back, Darius looks down at the ball against my foot. “You have possession.”
“Is this a metaphor?”
“In Briarwood, unfortunately, everything can become one.”
I place the framed photo carefully on the grass beside the goalpost and tap the ball toward him.
He traps it under one foot, eyebrow raised.
“Not bad.”
“I’ve learned from watching.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is. I’m observant.”
“I noticed that very early and suffered consequences.”
I laugh.
He passes the ball back softly.
I stop it with the inside of my foot, which earns an approving cheer from Tyler, who has appeared out of nowhere like a cape-wearing referee of romance and soccer.
“Sienna can play!” he shouts.
“She made one pass,” Darius says.
“Still counts!”
Coach Miller yells from across the field, “Everything starts with one pass!”
Darius looks at me.
I look at him.
Of course it does.
We rejoin the group with the framed photo tucked safely under my arm.
Morgan is laughing despite herself at something Colton has done with the stickers.
Nathan is definitely not checking his phone while checking his phone.
Coach Miller is directing three children, two parents, and one folding table with championship-level intensity.
Briarwood is loud.
Nosy.
Warm.
Full of love that arrives as food, criticism, banners, and people who do not let you stand alone too long.
Darius takes my hand again.
No one gasps.
No one shouts finally.
Probably because Colton is too busy explaining why he deserves a sticker that says GOAL-SCORING MEDICAL SUCCESS STORY.
Morgan refuses on principle.
I lean into Darius’s side and look across the field.
For once, I am not chasing the story.
I am not calculating the angle.
I am not trying to become impossible to overlook.
I am here.
Seen.
Known.
Still ambitious.
Still careful.
Still me.
Darius’s thumb moves over the back of my hand.
“You okay?” he asks.
I look at the crooked banner, the kids, the old field, the man beside me, and the whole sweet summer stretching ahead.
“Yes,” I say.
And I mean it.
Under the crooked Briarwood banner, with Darius’s hand warm around mine and my whole heart finally brave enough to stay, I understand the best stories do not ask you to choose between the headline and the heart.
They teach you how to hold both.
*** THE END ***
I truly hope you enjoyed getting to know Sienna and Darius.
Before reading on with Book 3 in the One Sweet Soccer Summer,
if you would be so kind to leave an honest review for Headlines & Heartstrings,
I would be more than grateful.
[ Review by Selecting Headlines & Heartstrings HERE on the Series Page]
Thank you,
Emily.