Chapter 68
SIXTY-EIGHT
Two-Minute Warning
“Oh my God,” I keep repeating, fingers crossed inside the sleeves of my coat.
This game has been a nail-biter, and I’ve seen them all—haven’t missed one since Jaxon returned to the field.
I made the decision early on not to sit in the luxury box, even though the team offered.
It was too far removed from him. I wanted to be close, close enough to feel like I was in it with him without disturbing his focus.
The past seventeen weeks have been a whirlwind.
A good one. And honestly, I don’t care what social media says—about me not having a life of my own, about me orbiting around a man.
Let them talk. This is what Jaxon and I do: we show up for each other.
Watching him out there now, helmet low, shoulders squared, Bull Sharks three down and thirty-three yards from the end zone, I finally understand what Genesis meant when she said our men need us in the game with them.
We’re supposed to breathe them, live them, ride with them.
I won’t take it quite that far—not without equal energy in return—but Jaxon is my gladiator.
The first down begins.
There’s a charged silence in the air, like every person in the stadium is holding their breath.
I can’t make out what Micah’s calling, but I can tell he’s changed the play. The ball is snapped.
My eyes find Jaxon immediately. His defender, Antonio Gill, is clinging to him like static, but the play shifts direction and ends with Myles Jones picking up four yards.
Second and six.
The players reset at the line of scrimmage.
“This is it!” my dad yells beside me, his voice strong and clear. You’d never guess he was once so sick he couldn’t lift his head. A bacterial infection nearly took him out, but now he’s shouting with the energy of a teenager.
We’ve had long talks since that day I first visited him in the hospital. That afternoon was nearly as nerve-wracking as this game. Jaxon couldn’t come—he had rehab—but it was better that way. It needed to be just us.
When I walked into that room, my father looked at me like he was seeing a ghost.
“You look so much like her,” he said, before breaking down into tears.
He meant my mother. And to witness a man I’d known my whole life as emotionally unavailable fall apart like that—it changed something in me. I crossed the room and hugged him without hesitation. I surprised even myself.
He asked me to listen—just listen—while he explained everything. No sugarcoating. No trying to make it easier for me to digest.
He told me he and my mother believed raising kids was women’s work. That was their agreement. And when she died, he panicked and rushed to fill the void. That’s how Stacy came into the picture.
He said he ignored the signs because he believed women were inherently kind. He’d let that belief cloud his judgment.
“Then we had three more, and Stacy just wasn’t pulling her weight.
I ended up doing everything for them. She liked being out of the house, and…
she had a few affairs. By the time I realized you needed me to step in and really pay attention, it was too late.
You’d already left.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I let her treat you the way she did. She was…” He trailed off.
I rubbed his shoulder, offering him a small comfort. “No need to speak ill of the dead, Dad. But that was an astute take,” I said. “Did Trey help you come to that conclusion?”
He laughed, then nodded. “Yeah. He did.”
“He’s been shrinking the hell out of me too,” I said.
We both laughed. That was the moment I told him I understood. That I forgave him. That I wanted to leave behind his guilt—and my own anger—and see what might be possible for us going forward.
We shook on it. Hugged on it.
And a week later, he was out of the hospital.
He moved in with me to make it easier to get to his appointments.
And when Jaxon was in town, they went to rehab together at the team’s facility.
The staff even treated my dad when Jaxon was away.
I don’t think they made a big deal about it.
They just did it. Because that’s what families do when they form—when they rebuild.
Now here he is, at full volume, shouting like a coach from the stands, stronger than he’s been in years. He’s living and breathing this game like he’s in it, like we all are.
Micah’s voice calls out the hike.
The ball’s in his hands.
Everything moves quickly—players shifting, defenders scrambling. I zero in on Jaxon, just as the pass arcs through the air. It’s perfect.
He catches it.
And then he runs.
I’m up on my feet, bouncing, hands on my head, eyes wide.
“Go, go, go,” I whisper-shout, almost afraid to be too loud. I want this for him so badly. I want him to finish it.
Antonio Gill is closing in, fast. I’m silently begging him not to take Jaxon down hard—not to twist something, not to cause more injury.
Then, it happens.
Jaxon dives, pushing past the last line of defense. He hits the grass, rolls, bounces up like a bolt of lightning, ball in hand, knees pumping as the rest of the team collapses onto him in celebration.
The screen flashes: TOUCHDOWN.
The stadium explodes with sound.
My dad is howling. Trey, Linda, and Bloom are screaming, and I can barely keep from falling to my knees. My hands cover my mouth. My whole body is shaking.
The team rushes to line up and spike the ball.
The clock is running out.
Game over.
We won.
And then I see him.
Jaxon is breaking free of the celebration, running—limping just a little—right to me. He’s dodging the press, his teammates, anyone who tries to stop him.
I lean over the edge of the stands.
He reaches up, pulls me into his arms.
We’re kissing. Holding on for dear life.
“We won!” I shout, laughing, near tears.
“We won,” he says again, breathless against my mouth.
And we did. We really, truly did.