Epilogue
Izzy
Yes, I am a stereotype.
This barefoot and pregnant omega is waltzing around a kitchen to make a decadent meal for her pack.
I’m in the one place I said I’d never be, and for some twisted reason I’m ecstatic about it.
Granted, this kitchen is in a rented high-rise condo in Las Vegas while the guys are in the playoffs.
It’s been three and a half years since I sucker-kissed my way into their lives. They won that championship despite missing their “captain,” then again the next year with Trick at the helm, and then they lost.
We’re hoping to rectify that over the weekend.
I snap a picture of the table all decked out and share it to our Wyatt Pack accounts.
Managing their social media presence is a full-time job all on its own. Sponsorship and endorsement requests flow in daily. Everyone’s enamored with our origin story. Between a secret omega, a jealous ex, fistfights on the concourse, and a criminal conviction, who can blame them?
I’ve thoroughly embraced my status. I’m still me, and it doesn’t feel so suffocating when I’m taking care of them.
Patrick Wyatt, Mason LaMille, and Bobby Vinson are everything I could ask for and more.
The message from Vin chimes through. I rush around the kitchen and put the finishing touches on the dinner spread.
Vin knows they knocked me up—he figured it out almost immediately—but Mase and Trick are clueless. I could’ve sworn Trick caught on once, but he hasn’t said anything and isn’t acting any different.
We’re telling them tonight. I had this whole elaborate plan of what I wanted to say, but nervousness jumbles up the words in my head. Vin will take care of it for me.
The little boy growing in my belly will have three thoughtful, attentive fathers to teach him the ways of the world.
Vin’s already ordered a Cannon onesie with “Wyatt Pack” across the back. Our pack-labeled merch is some of the team’s best-selling items.
Do I need a baby to be happy? Absolutely not. We’ve been enjoying our time together these last few years.
After the dustup with Brad, Mason was made a permanent member of the team. He’d already more than risen to the occasion with his performance in the first part of the season, and sealing the pack bonds clinched it.
Probably helped that Mason did not punch Brad at the end there. Coach admitted later he was expecting it and that Mason earned some respect by resisting.
And Brad. Oh, Brad. After having his contract with the Cannons voided under the misconduct clause, the Airmen retracted their bid. Turns out, he didn’t even have a signed contract with the other team when he bragged about leaving the Cannons.
The Cannons’ former captain was left high and dry. No team would touch him at the pro level. Last I’d heard, he was trying and failing to get onto one of the local minor teams.
Livvy and her Livettes lost interest in him after that.
Kenna, the girl who drugged my drink and helped vandalize my car, was sentenced to 60 months at the Addevale Correctional Facility.
As it turns out, drugging someone without their knowledge is considered assault, and assaulting an omega carries an aggravated sentence with or without knowledge of my designation. They gave her the maximum because she triggered a heat.
She’s been up for parole twice, but they always ask if she’s repentant and then she whines and complains about how I deserved it.
And so there she stays.
Livvy fell for a beta who owns a chain of clubs and hasn’t set foot in the stadium in years. Good riddance. That scar never faded though. My bestie’s a bad ass.
Our dinner table is almost set. The steaks have been resting, but I hesitate to move them to the guys’ plates. I’m making them the same dinner we had my first week at the house.
Another message pings through, and I expect it to be a confirmation from Vin that they’re in the elevator, but instead it’s a video of my goddaughter.
Jolie and I got our double-wedding after all, albeit with a few unexpected additional grooms.
Her little girl laughs as she jumps a stuffed bunny up and down in front of her.
“Op, op, op!” she sings.
“Now they’re sleeping,” Jolie adds, and Merri lays the bunny down like it’s asleep.
“Bun bun eepy,” Merri says.
They sing the sleeping bunny song a few more times. I’m so focused on the video that the sound of the door clicking open startles me.
Shit.
I rush around to finish moving everything onto the table in our rented condo.
“Izzy?” Trick asks.
“Where are you, my sexy bunny?” Mase adds.
“I made dinner,” I call back.
Trick, Mason, and Vin find the dining room, and their faces light up when they see me.
Their smiles are obscured by playoff beards—except for the half-moon where Vin’s bond mark proudly stands out—but it does nothing to dampen their reaction.
It never gets old.
I know that it never will. Their dedication resonates in my bones because I feel it too.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words tumble out of my mouth.
I just got so overwhelmed seeing them all standing there in their jerseys after the win and...
Tears well up in my eyes because the steaks are still in the kitchen, and I ruined the whole speech Vin and I planned, and they’re looking at me dumbstruck, and my hormones are like walking a fucking tightrope while drunk.
Neither Mason nor Trick seem to know how to respond. They remain stiffly awkward in the dining room’s entryway.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tears escalate to sobbing.
Vin rushes over and cups my face with his hands.
“Tell them you’re happy about it,” he murmurs and gently leaves a peck on my lips.
“I’m happy about it,” I force out through sniffles.
Their reactions crumble as if the wall they’d built to guard their emotions has come tumbling down.
Brick by brick, I suck in air as they realize that what I said is real and that I’m happy about it.
Mason’s the first to me. He lifts me up to squeeze me in a tight hug, then drops to a knee to kiss my barely round belly. He hugs my waist from the floor.
“Thank you,” he whispers, although whether that’s to me or the belly, I can’t tell. He buries his face in my sweater and sighs contentedly.
My lead alpha steps cautiously toward me.
“Pregnant?” The question is a whisper.
“The last heat.”
“They said it would take a few cycles—”
“It didn’t for us.”
His smile is tight while he coughs to clear his throat, but it’s not fast enough to avoid a single tear falling down his square-jawed face.
Trick takes my hand and brings it to his lips to leave a soft kiss on my fingers.
“I always knew you were trouble,” he says.
“Your favorite kind, Daddy.”
He smiles ruefully but replies, “I meant what I said that first heat. You are a gift, Izzy, every single day.”
I’m where I’m meant to be, as who I’m meant to be.
There’s no better justice for this particular PB than my happy ending.
The End