Epilogue
LOGAN
Four Years Later
The stadium is alive.
That’s the only way I can describe it—the way the noise swells and dips, the way the lights turn the turf into something unreal, the way the air tastes like cold metal and adrenaline. Chicago in November. Sharp enough to wake you up. Loud enough to drown out every thought you don’t want.
I bounce on the balls of my feet near the sideline, helmet under my arm, chin strap dangling. The seams in my gloves bite into my palms when I flex my hands.
My knee doesn’t hurt anymore.
It’s there—scarred and strong, a quiet reminder of a version of me that once thought pain was the end of the road. Now it’s just…part of the road. Something I survived. Something I worked through until it stopped being the loudest thing in my life.
I exhale and scan the field.
Across from us, Jaxon is already in his helmet, calm like he was built out of steadiness. Even in the pros, even with all the chaos that comes with being him, he looks like the kind of guy who knows exactly where he’s supposed to be.
Beside him, Beck is bouncing like a caged animal, grinning behind his facemask, like he’s been waiting for this game since the schedule dropped.
He spots me and points like I’m a target.
Then he makes a very clear gesture with his hand that would get him fined if anyone in the league office was watching closely enough.
I laugh under my breath. Of course.
“Brooks,” Carter says at my side, voice full of entertainment. “Your boyfriend is being aggressive again.”
I glance at Carter. He looks annoyingly fresh for a man who’s made a living getting hit. He adjusts his gloves like he’s about to go charm a camera.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say automatically.
Carter’s grin turns wicked. “That’s what all the boyfriends say.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He leans closer, lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret. “But you’re about to hate Beck.”
On the far sideline, Beck is still staring at me like he can see the exact place he plans to put my body into the turf.
Jaxon, on the other hand, just…looks away from the field for a second.
Not at the cameras. Not at the crowd.
Up toward the suites.
Like he’s checking that Madison is there.
I follow his gaze, and even though I can’t see into the glass from here, I know she’s up there. I know the shape of that love. The way it anchors him.
Love makes men stupid.
Love makes men brave.
Love makes them jump off cliffs and call it faith.
Carter claps me on the shoulder hard enough to jostle my helmet. “You ready?”
I swallow. “For the game? Yeah.”
Somewhere above us, Sloane is sitting in a box suite with her friends, wearing black and gold like she belongs to the city now.
She’s worried about something. She hasn’t said it out loud to me yet—hasn’t said anything at all—but I know her.
I know the way she’s been rubbing the inside of her wrist when she thinks too hard.
I know the way she’s looked at me this week, like she’s trying to memorize my face.
A ref’s whistle cuts through the noise.
Carter slips his helmet on. “Let’s go, Brooks.”
Across the field, Beck points at me again, like I’m coming for you.
Jaxon bumps Beck’s shoulder, calm, almost amused.
I pull my helmet on, chin strap snapping into place.
The crowd roars.
The ball kicks off.
And the game begins.
Sloane
The suite is too warm, or maybe that’s just me. I’m sweating through every single layer I have on, and I can’t take any more off.
Jade is to my left, legs tucked under her, already mid-commentary like she’s doing play-by-play for ESPN.
Blakely is to my right, clutching a soda like it’s a weapon. “If Beck hits Logan in the knee, I’ll burn this city to the ground.”
Jade snorts. “With what fire? Your feelings?”
Blakely flips her off. “My rage is renewable.”
Across from us, Madison is balancing two toddlers like she was born for chaos. Riley on her hip, Maeve in her lap. The twins are almost two, and they have their parents wrapped right around their little fingers.
Maeve presses her hands to the glass. “Daddy!”
Madison kisses her head. “That’s Daddy, baby.”
Riley squishes his cheeks against the window. “Daddy fast.”
My throat tightens at the sound of it.
Jaxon Montgomery, the same man who once carried love like a wound from what I’m told, now has two toddlers calling him Daddy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Lyla is on the couch, very pregnant, looking like she might sue someone if they breathe wrong near her. “If my water breaks in this suite,” she says, deadpan, “I’m suing the NFL.”
Sophie laughs softly, her hand resting protectively on Caleb’s shoulder. Her foster son sits close to her, wearing a jersey that hangs to his knees, eyes huge as he watches the field like it might bite.
“Is Beck gonna hit Logan?” Caleb asks in a whisper.
Sophie smooths his hair. “Probably.”
Caleb’s face pinches. “Why?”
Jade leans forward, grinning. “That’s how they say hello, kid.”
Caleb nods like he’s taking notes on an alien culture.
I should be laughing more.
I am laughing.
But the pulse underneath it all won’t go away.
Four days late.
Stress can do it, sure, but my body hasn’t felt like this in a long time, like it’s holding its breath.
The kickoff happens.
The crowd erupts.
The game moves fast, big plays, hard hits, bodies colliding like force is a language. Beck sacks Carter once and celebrates like a menace. Jaxon catches a pass and immediately looks up toward the suite again, like he needs to see Madison to settle.
It’s disgusting.
It’s beautiful.
My heart trips every time I spot Logan, every time he cuts across the field, every time he stands up after a hit like he’s made of stubbornness and fire.
In the second quarter, Logan takes a tackle that’s clean, normal, nothing dramatic.
But my stomach drops anyway.
My hand flies instinctively to my middle like I’m protecting something.
Jade notices instantly. Her eyes flick to my face. “Sloane.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She gives me a look that says try again.
I swallow. “I’m…tense.”
Blakely leans closer. “Are you sick?”
I shake my head, voice barely there. “I’m four days late.”
For one beat, the entire suite goes quiet.
Even Lyla stops shifting.
Even Caleb looks up, sensing the change.
Blakely’s eyes go wide. “OH MY GOD.”
“Shh,” I hiss, half-laughing, half-on-the-verge-of-tears.
Jade presses a hand to her mouth, eyes bright. “Oh my—”
Madison reaches across the space and squeezes my hand like she’s lending me courage. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispers.
Lyla smiles with tears already in her eyes because she’s pregnant and sentimental and doesn’t care who knows it. “Honey…”
Sophie’s gaze softens. “That would be…really beautiful.”
My throat aches.
I look back down at the field.
Logan is lined up, shoulders squared, helmet gleaming under the lights. He looks invincible.
But I know better.
The game ends with our team pulling ahead late in the fourth quarter. Beck’s team makes a push, Jaxon gets one last explosive catch, and Beck tries to end the game by laying out my boyfriend, but Logan still stands.
When the whistle blows, we win.
Carter yells something and throws his arms up like he’s performing for the cameras. Logan looks up toward the suite, searching.
And when his eyes find mine through the glass, I swear my whole body goes quiet.
Like the universe paused just to watch us.
I lift my hand to the window—small, instinctive.
He taps his fist to his chest once, then points up at me.
Mine.
Home.
Promise.
Jade bumps my shoulder. “Are you gonna tell him?”
I exhale, shaky. “I don’t know yet.”
Blakely grins. “He’s gonna faint.”
Madison smiles. “He’s going to cry.”
I roll my eyes. “Logan doesn’t cry.”
All three women stare at me like I’m delusional.
I blink, then laugh softly, warmth spreading through my chest.
Because maybe he will.
And maybe that would be the sweetest thing.
The drive home is quiet in the way that makes my thoughts louder.
Chicago at night is all wet pavement and glowing streetlights, the city reflecting itself back like it can’t stop looking. My windshield wipers swipe across a fine mist, and my hands stay locked at ten and two, even though I’m not nervous about the road.
I’m nervous about everything else.
Four days late.
Maybe five now, depending on how you count.
I park outside the little corner store a few blocks from our apartment and sit there for a second with the engine running, breathing in through my nose like I can inhale a decision.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve played in arenas with thousands of people screaming my name. I’ve taken final shots with my heart trying to punch through my ribcage.
But walking into a store for a pregnancy test makes my stomach flip like I’m breaking a rule.
I force myself out of the car.
Inside, the fluorescent lights are too bright. The aisles are too normal. A dad is buying cereal. A couple is arguing softly over pasta sauce. The world keeps moving like my body hasn’t quietly opened a door I wasn’t sure I wanted open yet.
I find the aisle.
I stand there longer than I mean to, staring at the boxes lined up like they’re all offering different versions of my life.
We weren’t preventing.
We weren’t trying-trying either.
We’ve been…letting life happen. Which is a terrifying way to phrase something that could end with a human.
I grab one that looks straightforward, then pivot and head for the freezer section like a woman on a mission, because if I’m doing this, I’m doing it with ice cream.
I pick vanilla bean without thinking. Pops always kept vanilla in the freezer. “Goes with everything,” he used to say, which was true.
My chest squeezes at the thought, but it doesn’t crush me the way it used to. It’s just there—an ache that lives alongside everything else now.
I pay. I leave. I sit in my car again and stare at the bag on the passenger seat like it might start talking.
Then I walk inside and set it on the counter like it’s just groceries.