Epilogue #2
Ellie’s leaning against the patio railing, arguing with Emma about something that sounds suspiciously like fantasy football rankings. She rolls her eyes when she laughs, dramatic as ever, and takes a sip from the bottle in her hand like she’s already decided she’s right.
People who knew me before everything cracked open and still chose to stay.
That matters more than anyone knows.
There’s a different kind of relief in being seen by people who remember the worst version of you and don’t hold it against the man you are now. No explanations required. No history I have to soften or defend.
They don’t see the guy who made decisions out of fear or obligation. They see the one who shows up anyway. The one who stays when it’s uncomfortable. The one who doesn’t flinch when things get complicated. Because he’s already lived through the part that almost broke him.
I didn’t realize how heavy it was, carrying an identity built on compromise, until I finally set it down.
Across the yard, Max, Ethan and Emma’s 2 year old, barrels past with his foam football tucked under his arm, face flushed and determined like he’s playing for the NFL. His jersey hangs crooked, one sleeve half off his shoulder, and he keeps tripping over his own feet without slowing down.
“Coach!” he yells, spotting me.
I drop into a crouch just in time before he launches himself at my legs like a missile.
“Oof,” I grunt, catching him and pulling him up into my arms. “What’s the play?”
He beams. “Run fast.”
“Solid strategy,” I tell him. “Just what the pros would say.”
Ethan shakes his head. “We’re doomed.”
“He just wants to be like his dad,” I say and Ethan smiles.
I set Max back down and toss the football across the lawn. He takes off after it, arms pumping, utterly convinced he’s unstoppable.
I straighten and let my gaze drift back to the patio.
Sarah stands near the table, laughing at something Emma just said. Ellie’s beside her now, glancing down at her phone with a half-smile before tucking it back into her pocket.
“Where’s your mystery man tonight?” Emma teases.
Ellie snorts. “Work thing. He promised he’d make the next one.”
She doesn’t elaborate, and no one pushes.
Sarah’s hand is wrapped around a glass of lemonade. The other rests loosely against her growing stomach, more habit than necessity, like she’s grounding herself without realizing it.
She catches me watching.
Her smile softens and she tilts her head slightly, giving me a look that says she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
This is good.
It still hits me sometimes. How uncomplicated it feels now. How much space there is inside my chest where tension used to live.
Three years ago, I would’ve been waiting for the moment something cracked. Measuring happiness like it was temporary or conditional.
Now, I just live.
That doesn’t mean I think everything is guaranteed. Life doesn’t work that way. Seasons change. Jobs get harder. People disappoint you in ways you never see coming.
But I trust myself now.
I trust that if something shifts, I won’t disappear into it. I won’t stay out of obligation or fear or momentum. I’ll meet it head-on, tell the truth, and choose again if I have to.
That kind of confidence doesn’t come from winning games or landing titles.
It comes from surviving yourself.
“You nervous about fall camp?” Ethan asks, handing me a beer.
I take it and shake my head. “Not nervous. Focused.”
Head Coach.
The words aren’t a whisper people talk about anymore. They are a reality now. I worked for this. Built it piece by piece. And when that offer came, I didn’t hesitate because I’d already done the work that makes a choice like that possible.
Sarah was already planning logistics before I even finished telling her. She didn’t question whether we could handle it or what we might need.
“She’s going to run circles around your media schedule,” Ethan says, nodding toward her. “You ready for that?”
I watch her gesture as she talks, confident and precise, completely at home in herself.
“Always has,” I say.
Max crashes to the ground again and pops right back up, undeterred.
I laugh and take another sip of beer, feeling something settle deep and solid in my chest.
This isn’t luck.
Luck implies chance. Accident. Being in the right place without understanding how you got there.
This is intention.
Every hard conversation or moment I didn’t turn away. And every time I admitted I didn’t have it figured out and stayed anyway. This life wasn’t handed to me. It was built, slowly, with hands that finally stopped shaking.
This is what happens when you stop letting fear make your decisions.
Sarah
The house is quiet once everyone leaves. It’s my favorite part of the night. The dishes are stacked but not done. The chairs are crooked. There’s a single toy football abandoned near the edge of the rug, like Max forgot about it the second he walked out the door.
Jace locks up and moves through the living room with easy familiarity, kicking off his shoes before dropping onto the couch beside me.
His arm comes around me automatically and I lean into him without thinking. That still surprises me sometimes. How instinctive it is and how my body trusts him without hesitation.
There was a version of me who always waited for the shift. The moment someone pulled back. The subtle change that signaled I’d asked for too much or needed to make myself smaller.
That version doesn’t live here anymore.
Now, leaning in feels like muscle memory instead of risk.
“Successful cookout?” I ask.
He huffs. “No one complained. That’s a win.”
"Max almost tackled you,” I point out.
“Almost?” Jace says. “He got me. Full contact.”
I smile, rubbing slow circles over his forearm.
The TV is on, but neither of us is watching. The light from it flickers across the room, soft and low. Outside, the yard lights glow faintly, illuminating the grass where laughter lived earlier.
“You tired?” he asks.
“A little.”
“Good tired?”
I nod. “The kind where nothing hurts, but everything feels used.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “My favorite kind.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. Not empty. Just full enough. Silence used to feel like something I needed to fill. Explain. Manage.
With Jace, it’s just space.
Space to breathe. Space to think. Space to exist without narrating myself into safety. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you, and that might be the most intimate thing we share.
“You happy?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t even pause. “Extremely.”
The answer hits me every time. The certainty of it and the lack of qualifiers.
No ‘but” or ‘for now.’ No careful language designed to soften expectations.
Just happiness.
I didn’t realize how rare that was until I stopped settling for answers that came with conditions attached. Loving Jace doesn’t feel like hoping anymore. It feels like knowing.
“I am too,” I say.
He shifts, turning more fully toward me, his hand sliding to rest over mine. His thumb rubs slow, grounding circles like he’s anchoring us both.
“I was thinking today,” he says. “About how I used to believe choosing the responsible thing would eventually lead to the right thing.”
I stay quiet, listening.
“And how wrong that was,” he continues. “Because responsibility without honesty just turns into another kind of cage.”
I nod. “You chose differently this time.”
He smiles faintly. “Because you never asked me to be anything but honest.
I think about the version of him I met years ago. A little aloof. A little ridiculous. The kind of charming that hid behind jokes and deflection when things got too real.
I didn’t fix him, because he wasn’t broken. He was just lost, stuck in his own way, and I stayed until he was able to find his way back to me.
When he asked me to marry him, it wasn’t flashy or dramatic. It was steady. Certain. The way he does everything now. No performance or escape route. Just a choice made out loud.
That’s the part I’m proud of. Not that he chose me, but that he chose himself.
I tilt my head back to look at him, really look at him. The man he is now feels settled in a way he never did before.
He shifts closer, his arm settling around me like it’s always known where it belongs. There’s no hesitation in it anymore, no pause, no need to check himself before moving. Just comfort and instinct.
“I still catch myself waiting sometimes,” he says quietly. “Like I should be bracing for something to go wrong.”
I tilt my head, looking up at him. “Do you feel it now?”
He meets my eyes. “I know the difference now.”
That answer lands deeper than anything dramatic ever could.
I rest my head against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the calm weight of his presence.
This is the part no one tells you about.
That peace doesn’t arrive all at once. It builds slowly, choice by choice, until one day you realize you’re not measuring happiness anymore. You’re just living inside it.
He nudges my knee with his. “You ever think about how normal this feels?”
I smile. “Normal’s underrated.”
“Yeah,” he says, lips curving. “Turns out quiet can be loud when you’re not used to it.”
I lace my fingers through his, grounding myself in the now. No tension humming under the surface. No waiting for something to crack. Just a life that fits. A future that doesn’t feel like a risk.
He looks at me for a long moment, something settled and sure in his eyes.
“I don’t feel split anymore,” he says.
I squeeze his hand. “Neither do I.”
And in the quiet that follows, with nothing pulling us backward and everything ahead of us open, I know this isn’t something fragile.
It’s chosen.