Epilogue
Brody
Two years ago, I thought running in for a touchdown in front of eighty thousand screaming fans was the most intense experience a man could endure.
Then my son learned how to run. He nearly skipped walking and took off as soon as his little legs figured it out.
“Luke! Leave the kicking tees alone, buddy!” I yell across the field at our practice facility, hands on my hips, helmet dangling from my right fingers.
It’s our last official practice day before the season begins. The team has incorporated our families attending as sort of a kickoff to the season, but also for media clips. So the field is currently a chaotic zone of players, spouses, and tiny humans running around wildly.
At two years old, Luke is a walking, running demolition derby. He is tall for his age, has his mother’s dark hair and hazel eyes, and has zero concept of personal space.
Now he and Liam’s son, Max, are aggressively chasing their daughter, Sera, who is giggling hysterically while clutching a football that looks too big for her arms. Beside them, Saint’s kids attempt end-zone dances, which gets my son joining in, promptly falling, then laughing hysterically.
“Looks like he got your footwork,” Liam drawls, walking up beside me with a towel draped over his shoulder, holding two water bottles. He looks entirely too relaxed for a guy about to lead us into week one. “By which I mean he looks like a confused tight end trying to catch a duck.”
“Ha, ha, funny guy,” I laugh, taking one of the bottles from him. “He’s two. Give him a break. Max doesn’t look much better.”
“I’m just saying, if he ends up in the league in twenty years, I’m taking full credit for his agility drills he’ll be mastering,” Liam grins, watching his kids dodge Luke’s uncoordinated tackle.
“If any of these kids play anywhere, it’s for the Titans,” a commanding voice chimes in. Alie walks over holding an iPad. She smooths down Sera’s hair as the kids run past. “My father already has jerseys with their last names, so it’s also a budget saver.”
Across the sideline, Saint holds his daughter in his arms and watches Aston run a defensive drill.
The transition from player to broadcaster has been seamless for him.
He still likes to come in and give us a hard time.
Crouching beside him, Presley, wearing her full team-doctor credentials, carefully checks a receiver’s taped ankle.
My eyes drift past the coaching staff toward the shade of the team canopy.
And my chest tightens in that familiar way it always does when Ellis is around.
She’s standing near the bench, looking casual but classy at the same time, wearing designer sunglasses and pristine white sneakers that had a very heavy price tag. She has her phone to her ear, but her left hand is resting over the rounded curve of her five-month baby bump.
Round two. Another Vaughn in the making.
I hand my water bottle back to Liam. “Hold this.”
“Where are you going? Coach wants us in the huddle in ten—”
“Then I have nine minutes,” I cut him off, already heading toward the sideline under the canopy.
Ellis sees me coming. She finishes her sentence into the phone and murmurs, “Hold all my calls until four, please,” and slides the device into her pocket as I step under the shade, towering over her.
“Vaughn,” she greets me with a wicked smirk, her eyes mapping my broad shoulders in my dark blue practice jersey. “Shouldn’t you be listening to your coach and team captain?”
“They can wait,” I chuckle, reaching out to wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her into me. “I love the jersey, Princess. How are my girls?”
Ellis leans up on her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss on my jaw, her hands resting on my chest. “Thanks. I have to represent my favorite player. And I’m good, but she’s starting to wiggle around.”
“She’s excited because she knows her daddy is on the field,” I say, leaning down to capture her lips in a possessive kiss right here on the thirty-yard line.
A loud, anxious whistle sounds from across the field.
“Vaughn! Wrap it up and get in the huddle. We all want to make out with our wives, but you have drills to run,” Saint yells, Presley standing beside him, shaking her head and laughing.
“You’re not even on the team anymore, Saint,” I shout back.
He throws his head back, laughing.
Ellis pulls back just an inch, her mouth twitching with amusement. “Looks like you need to get back to it. And you’re being utterly shameless in front of the majority of the Titans roster.”
“Are you saying you don’t want my kisses?”
“I’m saying that you should get back out there before you get fined.”
I lean in closer, my thumb lightly grazing the bare skin showing on her hip where her jersey has pulled up. “Baby, don’t bite the hand that fingers you, or whatever the saying is. I just wanted to check on my girls, and I can’t help it that you look so goddamn irresistible in my number.”
Ellis snorts, a sharp laugh escaping her as she covers her face for a second. “That is—without a doubt—the absolute worst butchering of an idiom I’ve ever heard in my life. I think you hang out with my mother too much.”
“It got a laugh out of you, though,” I grin, watching the flush spread on her cheeks.
Before she can answer, an energetic squeak lands at my knees, followed by a heavy thud against my cleats.
“Daddy! Look! I’m fast!” Luke shouts, looking up at us with dirt smudged across his forehead, holding a crumpled rose petal that he’s apparently stolen from the landscaping.
I scoop my son into my left arm, and he immediately grabs my chin with his sticky, dirt-covered hand, trying to stick the flower petal up my nose to smell it.
“Nice,” I chuckle, pulling the petal away from my face. “Did you beat Sera?”
“Uh huh. I’m fast!” He declares proudly, turning his body toward Ellis and reaching for her. “Mommy, you see?”
She leans in to kiss his cheek. “I did! You’re so fast.” Her eyes soften as she smooths down his hair.
I hand Luke over to Ellis. “Speaking of fast…” I lower my voice for her ears only. “You think you can get your parents to watch Luke tonight?”
“What does that have to do with being fast?” She tilts her head, an amused smile on her face. Luke wiggles in her arms, and she sets him down.
“I want to get you in our bed as soon as I get home.” I pull her against my side for a second.
“Good,” she murmurs against my jaw, her fingers giving my ass a smack before stepping back. “Then you better not be late.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
I walk backward out of the tent, my chest full, before turning back to the field and toward my son, who is trying to tackle a dummy twice his size.
I used to think winning a Super Bowl trophy would be the ultimate peak of my life, and don’t get me wrong, I still want that trophy.
And for years, making my mom and sister proud is what kept my fire burning, driving me to give everything to the game.
But standing out here on this field today, watching my son play, and knowing Ellis is growing our daughter in her belly …
I know I’ve already won everything that actually matters.