Epilogue
. . .
One Year Later
maverick
One year.
It’s been a year since I walked off that field for the last time. A year since the noise faded, since the lights dimmed, since I wasn’t Maverick Hayes, quarterback of the Tennessee Mustangs anymore.
I used to believe the game was everything I was.
My entire identity was tied to a jersey, a number, and Sunday crowds shouting my name.
I thought that without football—if I didn’t have that—there would be nothing left.
Just a washed-up athlete with too much time on his hands and nothing to show for it.
And hell, I was scared. I was more afraid than I’d ever admit out loud. Not of getting hit, not of breaking bones—I’d done plenty of that. But of what came after. Who I’d be when the crowd wasn’t chanting, when my stats didn’t matter, when I wasn’t the golden boy under center anymore.
Turns out, I was wrong.
Turns out, there’s a whole life after the game—a better one.
Because a year later, I know exactly who I am.
I’m Amelia’s husband.
That’s it. That’s the headline. That’s the jersey I’ll wear for the rest of my life.
It’s her—her laugh, her sharp mouth, her ink-stained fingers, her soft body curling against mine every night—that pulled me through the spiral.
Every time I questioned who I was without the game, she was there.
Whispering I was more. Proving it when she looked at me like I hung the damn stars.
Reminding me that being her husband is the only title I’ll ever need.
And fuck, I’ve never felt more at peace.
The field gave me glory. But Amelia… Amelia gave me myself back.
A year of living with her has been the best year of my fucking life.
It’s funny how many things you notice when you share four walls with someone. How they drink their coffee, how they leave the bathroom mirror fogged up after a shower, and how their hair ends up in every corner of the house no matter how many times you vacuum.
And then there’s me. My quirks. My flaws.
I clean. Obsessively. I always have. Ever since the day Mama died, when everything felt out of control, like the ground was ripped out from under me.
Scrubbing a counter, lining up shoes, folding towels into perfect thirds—these were the only things I could control when I couldn’t control life. It’s how I kept the chaos at bay.
I thought Amelia would hate it. I figured she’d roll her eyes, call me neurotic, maybe even pack her things after I reorganized her art supplies one too many times.
But she didn’t.
She teases me, yeah. Calls me Mister Clean with that smirk that makes me want to pin her against the wall.
But she never makes me feel crazy for it.
Sometimes she’ll even sit on the counter while I wipe everything down, sketching idly and humming to herself, just keeping me company.
She makes the habit feel less like a compulsion and more like…
something we do together. Like I’m not scrubbing away grief anymore, I’m making space for us.
And speaking of grief, God.
I didn’t realize how heavy I was still carrying it—losing Mama, the hole she left behind.
For years, I thought I had to fill that emptiness with football, fans, and noise.
But Amelia—she lets me talk about her. She listens when I share how Mama used to love all three of us loudly and how she’d keep us all in check, telling us the importance of brotherhood and family dinners.
Some nights, Amelia just holds me in silence when the memories become too overwhelming.
Other nights, she shares her own stories of loss, and it makes me feel less alone.
It’s been a year of her softening the sharpest parts of me, a year of her allowing me to grieve without shame, and a year of realizing I don’t need football to prove anything to anyone because I already proved it to the only person who matters—her.
A year of living with Amelia Hayes.
And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.
“Baby.”
The snap of fingers in front of my face pulls me back. Amelia’s watching me from her spot beside me, head tilted, eyeliner sharp as ever, her lips curved into the smallest smirk. “Are you okay? You spaced out.”
I grin and lean in to press a kiss against her plump lips, not caring that Carter groans in disgust from the other side of the table. “Yeah, baby. I’m good.”
The bar is lively, with warm lights hanging from the rafters, and laughter echoing off the wood-paneled walls. Boots & Bourbon is crowded for Carter’s birthday, but our group has secured the long corner table, because that’s our spot.
Catalina is holding court, as usual, sitting sideways on Carter’s lap like the queen she is, gesturing with her champagne flute. “I’m just saying—if men actually read instructions, ninety percent of household disasters wouldn’t happen.”
“Instructions are for people without common sense,” Carter grunts, kissing her shoulder.
Catalina swats at him. “You almost set the grill on fire last weekend!”
“I put it out, didn’t I?”
“You left me traumatized!” she shrieks, throwing her hands up.
Layla nearly chokes on her drink, dissolving into giggles. “Oh my god, Catalina, please livestream the next one. I need content.”
Reed, sitting across from her, doesn’t say a word.
But his lips twitch—barely—and his eyes?
Yeah, they don’t leave her. Not for a second.
He watches her laugh as if it’s the first time he’s seen sunlight in years.
When her hand brushes his as she reaches for the salt, he freezes, like a man struck by lightning.
Subtle, my ass.
I smirk into my beer, filing it away for later ammo.
Catalina is still going. “You’re impossible.”
Carter smirks, his hand sliding up her thigh like he doesn’t care we’re all sitting right here. “And you love me.”
“You’re lucky I love you, grandpa.”
He kisses her neck until she squeals, and I gag so loud Amelia smacks my chest. “Grow up,” she mutters, but she’s grinning.
“Never,” I whisper back, nuzzling into her hair until she giggles.
Across the table, Layla’s leaning into Reed now, her fingers brushing his. “So, Reed,” she says sweetly, batting her lashes. “How’s business? Any new cocktails?”
Reed clears his throat, shifting with nerves. “Fine.”
“That’s it? Fine?” she teases, sipping through her straw. “Wow. Riveting. You should let me run your socials, you’d actually go viral.”
His mouth curves, barely. “I don’t need to go viral.”
Layla’s grin widens, wicked. “It’s okay, Reed, I’ll help you with your social media.”
Reed adjusts his glasses, staring at Layla, green eyes burning, until she laughs nervously and looks away.
I kick his boot under the table. He glares at me, but his ears are red.
Gotcha, little brother.
I glance over at my sexy wife, admiring her pretty features, how her freckles dust her cute, button nose.
Amelia slides her hand over my thigh. “You’re staring again,” she whispers.
I lean down, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, baby. But only at you.”
Amelia’s laughter softens over time, her head resting against my shoulder.
She appears flushed, with her eyeliner smudged at the corner from wiping her eyes earlier.
At first, I think she’s just drunk, but she didn’t drink anything tonight, and then I notice her hand press lightly to her stomach, subtle, as if she doesn’t want anyone to see.
My chest tightens.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “Baby, you okay?”
She nods too quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
But her lips are pale, and she swallows like she’s fighting something back.
Catalina’s sharp eyes sweep across the table. She locks onto Amelia, narrowing her gaze like a hawk. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” Amelia says quickly, sitting straighter.
Catalina smirks. “Liar.” And then, with a flourish that makes me want to groan, she digs into her massive tote bag, shuffling through God knows what until she pulls out—
A pregnancy test.
“Catalina—” Amelia hisses, her cheeks flaming.
“What? Don’t act shocked. I carry everything—gum, safety pins, mace, lip gloss, pregnancy tests," Catalina shrugs, setting it on the table. “Sue me for being prepared.”
The table goes silent, then Carter mutters under his breath, “Darlin’,” dragging a hand down his face.
Amelia covers her face with her hands. “You are so lucky I love you, bitch.”
My heart is pounding, my hand already covering hers. “Baby,” I say softly, squeezing her fingers. “I’ll go with you.”
She peeks at me between her fingers, eyes wide.
“Right now,” I add, already pushing my chair back. “If you’re not feeling good, we’ll figure it out together. You don’t do this alone.”
Catalina beams, clapping her hands, already babbling about being an auntie. Carter mutters something about this family’s never-ending chaos. Reed looks like he wants to sink into the floor, and Layla is practically vibrating with suppressed excitement.
I press a kiss to her temple, whispering against her hair, “C’mon, dollface. Let’s go.”
And I don’t care if it’s Carter’s birthday or if the entire damn bar is watching—I’m not letting her face this alone.
The noise of Boots & Bourbon fades the moment we slip down the hallway. Amelia’s hand is tight in mine, her steps quick, as if she’s trying to outrun the stares and Catalina’s smirk. My chest aches just watching her—flushed, anxious, biting her lip raw.
When we reach the single-stall bathroom, I push the door open for her, letting her go in first. I follow, shutting it behind me, and turn the lock with a decisive click.
She leans back against the sink, arms crossed, eyes cast downward. Her oversized T-shirt hangs loosely around her frame, and I notice her hands trembling where they grip the fabric.
I step closer, placing one hand on the counter beside her hip and the other on her lower back. “Hey.” My voice is calm and steady, even though my pulse is racing. “Look at me, dollface.”