Epilogue
MAX
TWO YEARS LATER
“Callahan, I swear to God, if you don’t stop making googly eyes at your wife, I’m firing your ass,” Coach Dunn shouts.
Unfortunately, his threat only makes me smile harder.
My wife.
It took quite some time to lock Layla down. True to her word, she was anti-marriage from the first moment I brought it up as a possibility. I knew she was attempting to protect her heart, so I was patient. It was finally meeting Layla’s mom where the pieces started falling into place.
When her father died, Layla decided never to get married. She figured if she wasn’t married, she wouldn’t have to suffer like her mom did. After I told her mom I had every intention of marrying Layla, her mom was ready to coordinate a team attack.
My stubborn woman held her ground for quite some time, and it was only during a heartfelt visit to a Children’s Hospital outside of Denver where Layla claimed she had an epiphany about marriage.
We’d gone together to visit some children in the cancer ward, and a little boy asked if Layla was my wife.
I’d replied, “She’s more important than that. She’s my soulmate.”
The following day, she told me she was ready for me to ask her.
I, of course, made her wait a while.
What kind of man would I be if I immediately proposed?
She needed to sweat it out for a bit. Wonder if I’d changed my mind, or when I might pop the question.
Only when she relaxed and stopped looking over her shoulder every two seconds, expecting some outlandish proposal to jump out somehow, did I finally get down on one knee.
It wasn’t public, with lots of people, and we didn’t have any kind of engagement party right after.
It was the two of us, sitting on the couch, watching another thunderstorm come toward our building. It was quiet and perfect.
Our wedding, however, was neither of those things.
Layla had her heart set on holding the ceremony outside, at sunset, which meant a summer wedding.
It’s beyond challenging to figure out logistics of a wedding when the bride and groom are part of a major league baseball team that plays from April until October.
Adding another element was the fact that I had my entire Bridge Point team to invite as well, and finding a day where we could make it work was impossible.
But thanks to a scheduled afternoon game between the Raptors and the Bears, we managed to leave the stadium in a caravan, heading just west of Denver to the very same park where Layla and I went hiking that fateful day when she fell, leading me to follow her home and kiss her.
With almost three hundred guests, it took seven luxury coaches to carry us all to where we were holding the ceremony.
In an attempt at keeping some traditions alive, Layla went up early to get dressed and have her hair and makeup done, while I traveled with everyone.
I hadn’t been okay with us sleeping apart the night before our wedding, so she made me get up at the crack of dawn to leave in the morning.
I hadn’t seen her in twelve hours, and I was impatient as fuck to get to her.
And after everything that went wrong, all we could do was laugh.
My dad’s tux measurements were wrong, and he wore trousers that rivaled capris.
Layla’s veil blew off her head during pictures before the ceremony, and when she went to retrieve it where it landed in a grove of aspen trees, she discovered a wasp nest full of angry wasps.
They stung her a bunch of times. Thankful for no allergy, her best friend Denise, as well as Jamie’s now-wife Audrey, trailed around behind her with ice packs and a first aid kit.
A server tripped, dropping red wine on Layla’s mom’s dress.
A thunderstorm blew through while we were saying our vows, soaking everyone. We looked like drowned rats while laughing hysterically, almost unable to repeat after the minister — Jax Mitchell, who was all too thrilled to fill that role after getting ordained online.
Some of the catered food never arrived, but thankfully, all of the liquor did.
Other than the bite we fed each other, Layla and I never got an actual slice of our cake, and I’m pretty sure we barely ate the food either.
My entire Bridge Point team melded so well with the Raptors team; it was hard to believe they’d battled well into the bottom of the ninth inning before Jake hit a grand slam that cleared the bases, winning the game for us.
He told me afterward he did it so we could leave early, and that it was his wedding gift to us.
It was the best fucking day of my life.
I remember looking over to see Layla, giggling with a bunch of girls, hands thrown in the air as they danced to something Taylor Swift, and I knew life couldn’t get any better than that.
The following day, I marched into the GM’s office and officially announced my retirement at the end of the season. He immediately offered me a coaching job, which I happily accepted. I get to continue traveling with my wife? Yes, please!
It’s fitting that we’re back in Chicago for this trip.
Layla told me she has a surprise for me after the game, and I’m secretly hoping it’s a walk down memory lane at the hotel I booked for us.
I wouldn’t mind a little blindfold action again.
Truth be told, we’ve whipped it out on occasion since then, and I’ve even been blindfolded myself.
Layla was right when she said it heightens all the other senses.
In all honesty, it’s been such a joy watching her blossom the past two years.
Her confidence has grown tenfold, and she has no problem telling me what she wants or needs, both in and out of the bedroom.
Her praise kink is still going strong, and she responds so beautifully to me, allowing me to be in control.
The breeding kink I didn’t know I had is getting worse.
I’m determined to have one of my guys break through her birth control, come hell or high water.
“Yo, Max,” Jake calls, motioning for me to sit next to him on the bench.
Jake Holloway is growing into one hell of a ball player.
He helped the Raptors almost make it into the playoffs last year, their first time in over a decade.
We’re hopeful this year they can win the league outright or qualify for a wild-card slot.
“What’s up?” I ask as I plop down.
“Did you see more women have come forward about Morales?” he says quietly, his eyes darting to where Layla stands.
Thanks to support from the Raptors, Layla decided to schedule a press conference, where she announced what Morales did to her.
Within twenty-four hours, half a dozen women had contacted her, and within weeks, the list grew to double digits.
The crimes crossed multiple state lines, and Morales was arrested in Houston after three women came forward with enough evidence to convict him.
Not only did he commit crimes that resulted in multiple felony convictions, but the women all banded together to file a civil suit.
In the end, over twenty women participated in a civil lawsuit against him, led mostly by my brave wife.
It turns out the apartment break-in was courtesy of Morales as well.
I’d ranted and raved about how Layla needed to report it to the Commerce City PD, so he’d have more lawsuits and trials to go through, but she declined.
She claimed if it hadn’t happened, she never would have moved in with me, and we wouldn’t be where we are today.
Leave it to my beautiful wife to see a blessing in disguise from one of the worst days of our lives.
He’ll be in a Texas prison for a very long time, and I’m not sad about that at all. Honestly, I hope he’s already become someone’s bitch.
Layla and the other victims chose to take the settlement from the civil suit and create a foundation that will hold quarterly retreats where women who’ve suffered from sexual assault by men in power can go to find peace and healing.
The first retreat will be in a few months, and Layla is the keynote speaker.
Fifty women are signed up, and multiple brands have gotten involved to ensure these women are pampered and adored for the long weekend.
“Uh-oh. Your girl is watching us, and she doesn’t look happy,” Jake whispers. I whip my head up to find Layla, her face white. Jumping up from my seat, I stride to her quickly, taking her clammy hands in mine.
“What’s wrong? Your hands are cold. It’s August, baby. The temperature is ninety-five degrees. Are you coming down with something?” I ask, raising one hand to cover her forehead.
“Yeah, I’m coming down with something,” she whispers. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
Coach clears his throat. “Callahan, take your wife inside. Cold in this heat isn’t good.”
I nod in agreement, not giving Layla a moment to object before I’m sweeping her into my arms. When she doesn’t protest, I’m more concerned. She doesn’t like when she feels embarrassed in front of the team, which is why she still refuses to kiss me in the dugout.
Well, she refuses when the team is there.
When the team isn’t there … it’s safe to say she’s on board with doing anything and everything in the dugout then.
That’s how we found out the cameras run continuously, even when the stadium is closed, and even at night.
It’s also how I became friends with one of the tech guys in the booth, because he’s the one who got rid of the footage of Layla riding me on the bench one night last summer … and he gave the tape to me.
We’ve watched it more than once. It turns out Layla may have a little bit of an exhibitionist kink as well. We’ve managed outdoor sex multiple times since then, including just off the trail we hiked.
Inside the locker room, I gently place Layla in a chair by my old locker.
“Alright, let’s get some fluids in you,” I murmur, then chuckle at myself.
“What?” Layla asks.
“This is quite the role reversal. Me trying to get you hydrated. Should we talk about your diet, too?” I tease, making her smile. “You know, Mrs. Callahan, every once in a while, a greasy cheeseburger and tater tots will infinitely boost your mood and —”
I’m interrupted when Layla’s face turns a remarkable shade of green, and she lurches to the side to vomit into a small trash can. “Holy shit, baby. You really are coming down with something. How long have you felt sick? I wonder how long it’ll last.”
I grab a roll of paper towels, ripping one off, then pat it along her neck and forehead. When I hear her mutter something, I have to ask her to speak up.
“I’ve felt sick for a few days, but it’ll be nine months before I feel better, I think.”
I laugh. “That’s pretty dramatic. I doubt you’ll be sic —”
I stop mid-sentence.
Nine months.
Vomiting.
Nine months.
Dropping to my knees, I take her face in my hands. “Are you pregnant? Layla Grace, did I put a baby in you?”
She nods, sniffling, as she pulls a pregnancy test out of her pocket. I peer down, jubilantly looking at the word “pregnant” on the digital screen.
Whooping loudly, I sweep her into my arms again, spinning us. At first, Layla laughs, then I hear her pained, “Max, stop!” As soon as her feet hit the ground, she throws up again.
Alright. No spinning the pregnant lady.
As she wearily sits back down, I reach out to wipe her face. “Are you happy, baby?”
As tired as she looks, when her eyes meet mine, I see the excitement and sheer joy emanating from her, and I assume it matches mine. “I’m so happy, Max. You finally got your wish of knocking me up.”
I kneel before her, kissing her temple tenderly. “It was bound to happen with how much sex we have. At one point or another, one of my swimmers was going to get through.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks softly. I nod against her, and I see her coy smile. “It was a lot easier because I went off birth control two months ago.”
Groaning, I can’t help but laugh. This woman. This beautiful, infuriating, exquisite, challenging woman. The one who has given me a happiness I never knew existed is now going to make me a father. And it only makes me think one thing again.
My wife makes me irrationally feral.