Epilogue—Brody
ONE MONTH LATER
I’m in the first row of seats at the Duke Alumni Night Dual.
It’s the last meet I’ll be on the sidelines for.
The disciplinary board suspended me for three meets and left me with a stern warning that any further violations would result in much more serious consequences.
Expulsion was heavily hinted, but it’s unlikely to be an issue.
I acted out of character, because, as my friends and family have reminded me over and over again, it’s not in me to be violent.
I’ve been hard on myself about it. Even with the way things turned out, I still regret my actions.
Although nobody else seems to.
When facing a long list of harassment charges and disciplinary reports that would have made him more likely to be expelled than me, Pierce quietly dropped the formal charges against me and transferred to Stanford.
As luck would have it, our home dual against Stanford is the first meet I’ll be allowed to participate in after my suspension, and although I’ve joked about trying to drop a weight class to see if we get paired up, I’m not actually that petty. I’d rather just move on.
And that’s what we’ve all done. The team has come together and thrived without the toxicity that lingered beneath every practice and dual. Not just from Pierce, but from Beck.
My boyfriend, Beck.
My totally out and mostly confident boyfriend, who still gets to his knees and crawls to me when I catch him in the showers late after practice.
Who still obeys when he’s told to meet me in the stairwell with his pants down and his hands on the wall.
Who blushes fiercely when we walk out of either of our dorm rooms after I turn him out, but isn’t ashamed.
Coming out wasn’t exactly easy for him. He was terrified.
But even though I assured him over and over again that he didn’t have to come out for me, he still did it.
My boyfriend stood up in front of the whole team and told them that we were together, and dared anyone to make another disparaging comment about me ever again.
My boyfriend, who is eight points up in the third period of his matchup against a former national champion.
I watch as he grapples with the hulking champion, eventually flipping the guy clean over his shoulders and straight to his back.
The other guy’s face ends up practically wedged between Beck’s thighs as Beck clamps down to secure the fall position.
I get a tiny surge of jealous lust and think about giving Beck his Valentine’s gift early as a celebration for winning and as punishment for not trying that move on me first. I can’t wait to see the look of mortification on his face when he opens the box and sees the skimpy satin thong, in the same deep red as the singlet he’s wearing right now. He’s going to combust.
The ref slaps the mat, confirming Beck’s pin, and the Hunston crowd erupts. I’m on my feet, clapping and cheering for my man.
A voice, deep and low, speaks right behind my left ear. “He could’ve ran it a little tighter on the turn. Would’ve been smoother on the finish.”
I flinch so hard my whole body jerks. Bristling, I turn toward the voice, noting that the mocking tone I’ve come to expect from Beck’s father is suspiciously absent. Then again, it could be that he saves the worst of his venom for Beck alone.
Charles Beckett stands there, hands in the pockets of an expensive coat, expression unreadable except for a slight quirk at one corner of his mouth. His eyes stay on his son as Beck shakes hands with his opponent.
There’s something like pride in them. It’s faint, but I think it’s real. My shoulders relax, if only a little.
Beck catches sight of us. He stiffens instantly, alarm flashing across his face. I subtly lift my hand from my thigh to signal him to hold back.
I wink. Don’t worry, baby girl, I’ve got this.
I turn back toward Mr. Beckett. “The half looked fine,” I say casually, analyzing his comment about the match. “The guy was already fighting the turn. Running it tighter might’ve stalled momentum. Beck adjusted for the scramble, and the roll was clean.”
He huffs, then gives a single nod of acknowledgement at my assessment. “Fair point.”
I hesitate momentarily, then decide to take a chance. I hold out my hand to the man who will, whether he likes it or not, someday be my father-in-law.
“Brody Miller,” I say, because we’ve never actually been officially introduced.
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes that looks wary or maybe unsure, but Mr. Beckett clears his throat and takes my hand, grip firm but not unfriendly.
“Charles Beckett. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
It’s a start. I’ll take it.