Epilogue
FINN
While Emily swept the floor with Rydell, Marks her expression so dangerously blank it was a work of art.
I’d seen that look before. It was the one she’d perfected in the weeks after finally, officially, kicking Micah and his collection of bullshit to the curb.
“My name is not sweetheart,” she said, her voice dripping with acidic sweetness. “And those are raspberry truffles. I’m happy to ring some up for you.”
“No free samples?” Hutch asked.
“Only for people who don’t call me sweetheart.” Dallas grinned wide enough to show her teeth.
From his corner, Elliott let out a sound that was suspiciously close to a choked laugh.
Hutch blinked, completely thrown. He was used to women falling all over themselves. A slow, intrigued grin spread across his face. “What’s your name then? What do I call you?”
“Dallas,” she said. “Would you like the three pack or the six?”
Hutch, for the first time since I’d known him, looked genuinely speechless. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Let’s go twelve.”
Oh, this was going to be good.
Later, after the shop had closed and the last of our crew went home, Emily and I were alone. She leaned against me, her head resting on my shoulder as I wrapped my arms around her waist, the scent of sugar and coffee clinging to her.
“I’ll miss having you around all the time,” she said.
“Training camp isn’t forever. And I won’t be far.
” I kissed the top of her head. Football used to be my everything, but that had shifted.
Now she was my everything. My identity wasn’t just a jersey number anymore.
The crowds and stadium lights were part of my story, but they weren’t the whole thing.
I looked down at the woman in my arms—the one who’d seen me at my most broken and decided to build a life with me anyway.
I was no longer just a player. I wasn’t just her brother’s best friend.
I was hers.
And after a crap load of PT with Trent, and more scans than I ever thought possible, I got cleared for practice.
The first play back was the same one that took me down on national television.
Of course, it was.
Coach had worked it out weeks in advance with the PT team—a controlled return, supervised, nothing flashy. We’d been building toward it since the conditional clearance, adding intensity week by week, one clean scan at a time. By the time the play was called in practice, my body already knew it.
But knowing it and doing it were different things.
I lined up at the slot. The turf under my cleats felt exactly the way it always had. Hutch was to my outside. Delancey across the formation. The safety had me in his line of sight.
The count went. I ran the route.
No hesitation. No pain. Just the ball coming in hot over my inside shoulder, my hands finding it before my brain caught up, and then the three steps I needed before Hutch set the block and I cut upfield.
It was eleven yards.
In practice. With no defenders who wanted to kill me.
It was the best thing I’d ever done.
I jogged back to the huddle and nobody made a thing of it.
But after practice, Briggs found me at my locker and clapped me on the shoulder without saying anything. Which, from Briggs, was the equivalent of a speech.
I drove to The Sweet Brief and ordered a lemon truffle because it was what Emily had closest to the register and I didn’t want to wait.
She raised an eyebrow. “You hate lemon.”
“I’m in a good mood.”
“Good practice?”
“Good practice,” I said.
She put the lemon truffle on a small plate and slid it to me.
I ate it. It tasted like something I’d been working toward for months.
EMILY
Stallions Stadium
Much, Much Later
Elliott got me a media pass, letting me stand near the field. This was not a perk I ever knew he could provide. But now that I did? I couldn’t think of a better place to watch the game.
Sixty thousand fans roared for Finn’s first game back, and my heart tried to pound its way out of my throat
He was out there again, number eight, helmet glinting under the lights. I told myself to breathe. To just be cool.
And when the Stallions took the win—barely—it wasn’t the scoreboard that made the stadium explode at the end. It was Finn.
Finn jogged toward the sideline, helmet in hand, grin bright enough to outshine the floodlights. Then he turned toward me and lifted something over his head.
A giant white poster board.
Black marker letters. Crooked, messy, perfect.
FOREVER?
And on the Jumbotron the words read:
EMILY, LET’S GET HITCHED
The crowd went wild.
And me? I forgot how to breathe.
When Finn jogged to me and dropped to one knee—right there, on the fifty-yard line—I didn’t even wait for him to ask.
“Are you seriously doing this now?” I said, gesturing at his mud-stained jersey.
“Is there a better time?” Finn replied with that crooked smile.
Elliott strode over and handed him a ring box. “I kept it safe.”
“You’re both completely ridiculous,” I said.
“That’s not a yes,” Finn countered, still on his knee.
“Yes!” I shouted. “Yes, you big idiot!”
The roar that followed shook the stadium. Confetti cannons fired. The scoreboard flashed,
SHE SAID YES
He hugged me tight and kissed me good.
“You sure about this, Em?” he murmured.
I smiled, tears blurring the lights. “Forever with you sounds pretty perfect.”