Epilogue
Kane
The lights backstage are too bright, too artificial.
They bounce off the polished floors and the glossy draft banners like they’re trying to blind me before the moment hits.
Everything smells like nerves—cologne, sweat, adrenaline.
I’ve been hearing my name all night, murmured by analysts, whispered by agents, passed between coaches like a secret they’re not ready to share. But no one’s said it to me. Not yet.
I’m sitting between Blair and my father.
My elbows rest on my knees, my phone face-up on the table in front of me, silent.
Waiting. Blair’s hand is on my thigh, steady and warm, grounding me in a way no one else ever has.
She’s wearing black again, lace at the cuffs, velvet at the collar.
It’s subtle, but I see it. I feel it. A quiet echo of Halloween.
Of the maze. Of the moment she stopped running, and I stopped pretending I didn’t need her.
She leans in, voice low and calm. “You ready?”
I nod, but I’m not. Not for the cameras. Not for the stage. Not for the weight of a city on my shoulders. But I’m ready for them. For the Seahawks. For the call that changes everything.
My father hasn’t said much. Just clapped my shoulder once when we sat down. His silence is heavy, but not cold. He’s watching me like he’s trying to memorize this version of me, the one who made it. The one who didn’t break.
Then my phone lights up.
Seattle area code.
I stare at it for half a second too long. Blair squeezes my leg, and I answer.
The voice on the other end is familiar—Coach or GM, doesn’t matter. It’s the question I’ve been waiting for since I was twelve years old.
“You want to be a Seahawk, Kane?”
I look at Blair. She’s not smiling. She’s watching me. Like she did in the maze. Like she does every time I lose control and she lets me. Her eyes are steady, dark, knowing.
I nod once, then speak.
“Yes, sir. I want to be a Seahawk.”
The moment hits like a thunderclap.
“With the first overall pick of the 2026 NFL Draft, the Seattle Seahawks select Kane Fischer, quarterback, Northern Tennessee.”
The crowd erupts. Cameras flash. My name echoes through Radio City Music Hall like a war cry. I hear it, but it doesn’t feel real until Blair squeezes my leg and my father exhales beside me, quiet, proud, restrained in the way only he knows how to be.
I stand.
The draft hat is handed to me, navy blue with the silver hawk stitched across the front. I slide it on, adjust the brim, and walk toward the stage like I’ve done it a thousand times in my head. But this time, it’s not a dream. It’s legacy.
The announcer waits with the jersey—number one, crisp and gleaming under the lights. I shake his hand, grip firm, jaw tight, heart pounding. Cameras flash again. Somewhere in the crowd, someone’s already printing my name on a banner.
But I’m not thinking about them.
I’m thinking about her.
Because the second I step off stage, Blair is there, eyes shining like she’s the only one who ever saw this version of me coming. She jumps into my arms without hesitation, legs wrapping around my waist, laughter spilling from her lips like victory.
I twirl her around, jersey still clutched in one hand, hat crooked on my head, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us.
Her arms around my neck.
My name on her lips.
And the quiet, unshakable truth that I didn’t get here alone.
The cameras are still flashing. Blair’s arms are still around my neck. But the moment slows like the world’s holding its breath just long enough for me to feel it.
I set her down gently, and she smooths my jersey, fingers brushing the number one like it means more than just a pick. Like it’s a promise.
Then I hear him.
My father’s voice, low and steady behind me.
“You did it, son.”
I turn.
He’s standing just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp but softer than I’ve ever seen them. There’s a pause, just long enough to make my chest tighten, before he adds, “I’m proud of you.”
Three words.
That’s all.
But they hit harder than any tackle I’ve ever taken. My throat tightens, sudden and sharp, and I have to look away for a second, jaw clenched, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and relief.
Because I never thought I’d hear them.
Not from him.
Not like this.
Blair slips her hand into mine, grounding me. I squeeze it once, hard, and nod at my father. “Thanks,” I manage, voice rough. “That means everything.”
And it does.
Because I’ve worn a lot of jerseys in my life.
But this—this is the first time I feel like I’ve earned my name on the back.
The party was loud. Champagne, cameras, congratulations. Everyone wanted a piece of me—agents, reporters, old teammates with wide grins and backslaps that stung. But none of it mattered.
Because the second the elevator doors closed and it was just Blair and me, the world went quiet.
Now we’re in the hotel room. Dim light. Velvet shadows. Her heels are off, hair down, makeup smudged from hours of smiling. She looks wrecked and radiant. Mine.
I reach for her wrist—not to hurt, just to feel her pulse. Proof she’s real. Proof this isn’t a dream I’ll wake from alone.
“You’re mine,” I say, voice low, steady. “Not in the way lovers claim each other. In the way fire claims oxygen. In the way madness claims sanity.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.
She leans in, lips brushing my ear, breath warm and deliberate. “Then let me drown in you. Let me forget my name. I’ll be yours—body, soul, and every dark thing in between.”
I close my eyes for a second, just to feel it. Her words. Her presence. The weight of everything I’ve earned and everything I never deserved.
“You know you’re coming to Seattle with me, right?”
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “What about school?”
“I’ll pay for you to go there,” I say. “I’ll pay for everything. I don’t care what it costs. I want you in my bed, in my apartment, in my city. I want you where I can see you. Where no one else can touch you.”
She studies me, quiet, unreadable. Then she nods.
Not because she needs my money.
Because she’s already chosen me.
And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving she was right.
She’s curled against me now, her head on my chest, the draft jersey draped over the chair like a flag we already bled for. The room is quiet—just the hum of the city outside and the steady rhythm of her breathing. But I can’t stop thinking about it.
About her.
About us.
About the calendar I keep in my head, the one she always forgets. The one I never do.
“You’re late,” I say softly, fingers brushing her lower stomach.
She hums, half-asleep. “Late for what?”
I don’t answer right away. I just keep my hand there, still and warm, like I’m waiting to feel something move. “You didn’t miss it on purpose. I know that. But I’ve been counting.”
She lifts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Kane…”
“I’m not mad,” I say quickly. “I’m not scared. I’m—” My voice catches, and I have to swallow hard before I can finish. “I’m happy, Blair. Happier than when they called my name tonight. Happier than when I walked across that stage.”
She stares at me, stunned. “You think I’m…?”
“I know you are.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and electric. Then she presses her palm over mine, right where our child might be growing, and something in her face softens. Breaks. Rebuilds.
“Our obsession made something,” I whisper. “Something real. Something ours.”
She doesn’t cry. She burns. Eyes shining, lips trembling, voice steady when she says, “Then let it ruin me. Let it remake me. I want to belong to this, Kane. To you. To them.”
I pull her into my lap, bury my face in her neck, and breathe her in like she’s the only thing keeping me sane. Because she is. Because I didn’t just get drafted tonight.
I got everything.
The End