Epilogue
BEN
The Next Spring
My parents’ new house in Rose Bay is currently chaotic. It’s full of my friends and family, and none of them are being chill. At all.
There’s also way too much food that no one’s touching. Ella is pacing like a maniac. Uncle Jack is on the phone with God knows who, as if he could control what happens. Ali has her phone out, ready to film whether we ask her to or not.
Declan is chasing Mini-Ben all over the place. He’s playing with an unreasonable number of tiny footballs scattered across the floor. He grabs one and slams it against the floor. “Ba,” he announces proudly.
Jack crouches immediately. “James, did you see that arm?”
James nods calmly from the armchair. “Told you. He threw it two feet.”
Katy sits beside me, her knee bouncing.
“You good?” I ask.
She nods. Lies. She’s more nervous than me.
Finally, the screen changes, and the commissioner’s voice fills the room.
“With the first pick…”
My heart lodges in my throat.
“…the New York Giants select…”
The room quiets just enough to hear my own breathing. This is it. Every workout. Every game. Every risk. All of it comes down to a name being called, or not.
My hand tightens around Katy’s.
“Benjamin Davis,” the commissioner announces.
Me.
New York selects me.
For a second, no one moves.
Then everything explodes.
Ella screams. Ali drops her phone and screams louder. Grandma Patty and my mom start crying immediately. Katy and I just stare at the screen, stunned.
“New York,” I whisper.
Close to home.
So close.
She turns to me, eyes wide. “Ben. You were the first-round pick. Oh my God!”
“And we can stay,” I say, barely getting the words out.
She laughs, crying at the same time. “We don’t have to leave.”
I pull her into my arms, tight and shaking. Mini-Ben appears, probably summoned by the chaos, and gets squished happily between us. He belongs in the middle of every good thing.
He squeals, startled by the noise, then laughs like this was all for him.
“We’re staying,” she murmurs, voice breaking. “We’re staying.”
She presses her face into my shoulder, relief crashing through me.
Home doesn’t move.
We get to do this together.
Around us, the room keeps buzzing. Everyone is either hugging, crying, yelling, already talking about parties and hats and logistics—but inside my arms, everything is suddenly quiet.
And right.
We end up celebrating until way too late. The music got louder, the lights dimmer, our night unraveling the way only good news can.
I’m a little buzzed. Katy definitely is a lot buzzed. We make out like teenagers who forgot we’re surrounded by people, laughing when someone catcalls.
At some point, someone suggests swimming. No one questions it, and we all end up in my parents’ pool, shoes abandoned, clothes still on, cannonballing into the water like idiots who don’t have a single regret between them.
Katy surfaces, sputtering and laughing, my arms already around her.
Having my people celebrating with me is what made this night so special. Everything blurs together, chaotic and loud and perfect.
This.
This feels like winning too.
KATY
Three years later
Chaos is already winning when I hear Ben walk inside.
I’m standing in the hallway in mismatched socks, my laptop clutched to my chest and my hair escaping its clip. I have one hand braced against my stomach, the other clenched tight around the computer like it’s the only thing keeping me sane.
“I have a deadline,” I scream, my voice pitched one notch too high. “Which means we are going to bed.”
Mini-Ben is upside down on the couch. There is ketchup on the wall. Not splattered, but artfully curated. Like he had a vision.
Ben stops just inside the door, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, and takes it all in.
Then, very gently and very calmly, he says, “Katy.”
I spin. “I swear to God if you say calm down—”
“I’ve got it,” he adds immediately. “Go upstairs. Lock your office door.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“I’ll handle this,” he repeats, already setting his bag down. “Go. Now.”
For a second, I hesitate. I get that reflex to explain, to justify why I need help, to just push through.
I fight it, and the relief hits me like a wave.
“Okay,” I say softly. “I love you.”
“I know,” he laughs. “Now run.”
I disappear upstairs like I’m being chased. But instead of immediately locking myself in my office I watch them from the top of the stairs. I can’t help it.
Mini-Ben launches himself off the couch and skids to a stop in front of his dad.
“DAD!” he yells, like he’s been gone for years instead of a few days.
He throws himself at Ben’s legs, and Ben scoops him up. “Hey, buddy.”
“Play football?” he asks immediately.
“It’s eight-thirty.”
“Please?” he says, hopeful.
“And you’re three.”
“I’m not tired,” he announces proudly.
Ben sighs. “I know, but it’s bedtime.”
His face falls.
“Five minutes,” Ben relents.
Our son’s eyes light up. “Yes.”
They’re on the rug two seconds later. He throws the ball directly at Ben’s face. He fakes dramatic injury. Mini-Ben cackles.
“Again!” he demands.
“Okay, but this is the last one.”
They play. They laugh. Mini-Ben tackles him like he’s six-foot-four and headed to the league himself. After twenty minutes, Ben scoops him up, sweaty and giggling.
“Alright,” he says. “Now we’re tired.”
Mini-Ben yawns immediately, betraying himself.
“No, I’m not,” he insists, slumping against his dad’s shoulder.
“Sure, buddy. Let’s test that theory.”
Then I finally go into my office. My heart is so full it might explode.
An hour later, Ben knocks gently on my office door. “Can I say hi properly now?”
I giggle. “Yes, please.”
He grabs my face with both his hands and kisses me. Then he kisses my belly.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Very pregnant. But I’m better now. You’re unreal.”
He shrugs. “It was just an hour. You had him all week.”
I smile. “Still. Thank you.”
“I’ll let you get back to this. I love you.”
“Goodnight. I’ll come to bed soon.”
We may have different dreams, but this life is our story, and we’ll keep choosing to write it together.
Through every storm.