Epilogue
Morgan
The stadium pulsed with an energy that truly felt alive, a living beast roaring under the blinding lights of the Victory Bowl.
One year. It had flown by in a blur of triumphs and quiet moments, transforming the chaos of that fateful morning—when Jax had pounded on my door, eyes wild with panic over Darnell's locker-room insinuations—into a tapestry of something unbreakable.
Back then, our relationship had teetered on the edge, born from a fake-dating scheme to salvage his "bad boy" rep after the paparazzi shove.
Headlines had screamed "fraud," but we'd flipped the script: friends since childhood, lovers by choice.
No more pretending. The punch Jax threw at Darnell?
A turning point. Fines paid, apologies issued, and Darnell eventually was traded away to some middling team where his trash-talk echoed in empty stadiums after a few additional altercations with other teammates.
Jax emerged stronger, his youth program in Daly City blooming into a beacon—hundreds of kids now, with scholarships, mentorships, and even a junior league that Nike sponsored.
I'd poured my event-planning heart into it: launch galas, family days, crowdfunding drives that raised six figures.
It wasn't just PR anymore; it was us, together, building legacies.
We have also started to expand into neighboring communities of the bay area, with an established board, composed of professionals from schools in the neighborhood, members from the GWL, myself, and a few sports enthused parents.
My own career has skyrocketed too.
That temp gig with the GWL PR department?
Permanent now, after I turned Devin Mills from bar-brawling rookie to community hero with a string of charity clinics.
Clients flooded in—other teams, even celebrities—wanting the "Morgan magic" that turned scandals into stories of redemption.
I upgraded from my cozy co-working corner desk space to small standalone bungalow on a busy street off of Pine Street, with staff across the States.
I even had an assistant now. Jax and I got rid of our prospective homes and found a spacious house in Presidio Heights, with a nursery already painted soft yellow.
Jax proposed six months ago in the vacant lot behind someones garage in our old neighborhood, the same spot where we'd dreamed as kids.
His grandma's ring fit perfectly, a vintage diamond that caught the light like a promise.
"From friends to lovers, my best friend, then and now,” he'd whispered, kneeling in the grass.
Now, here I sat in the family suite, high above the field, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and anticipation.
Friends of ours, two of my new non-sports related clients, board members from the youth program, my sister and her wife, along with Jax’s parents surrounded me—his mom, Elena, with her warm Florida tan and endless supply of empanada recipes; his dad, Carlos, pacing like a caged coach, muttering play calls under his breath.
They'd flown in two days ago, arms full of baby gifts: tiny Wolves onesies, a plush football rattle, and the stroller that I’d been eyeing every time I would browse the baby sites.
I sipped water from a chilled bottle as everyone else The bump was just noticeable under my Wolves jersey, a secret we'd kept close until tonight.
Morning sickness had been a beast early on, but now, a flip was switched as soon as we crossed into the second trimester and pregnancy became pure joy, mixed with the butterflies — just like the ones that I have for this game.
The San Francisco Wolves against the Montana Bears— a clash of titans in the truest sense. We'd dominated most of the game, Jax is force on the field with three catches for 85 yards, including a diving grab that had the commentators raving.
"Carr is playing like a man possessed," one had said. But a late interception tied it at 24-24, sucking the air from the stadium.
Overtime loomed, but the Wolves won the coin toss, deferring to receive. Now, final drive: 1st and 10 at the Titans' 20-yard line. The clock showed 1:48, timeouts burned. All eyes on the field, but mine? Locked on Jax.
Elena squeezed my hand, her rings cool against my skin. "He's got this, mija. Always said he'd win the big one."
I nodded, throat tight. After most of his high school games, we would sit in the bleachers after the lights went out, Jax would spin tales of glory: "Someday, Morgs, I'll catch the winning pass in the Victory Bowl. The crowd would be screaming my name and going wild, confetti everywhere. And you know what, you would be there too.”
I remember I'd laughed, tossing something at him. "Dream big, Carr. Just don't trip on your way to the end zone."
It’s a full circle moment, his dreams have manifested into our reality.
The huddle on the field below broke. I had missed the first possession.
Damnit. I watched as Jax lined up wide, his stance predatory, helmet shadowing those green eyes I knew so well.
The crowd's chant—"Wolves! Wolves!"—vibrated through the glass.
Snap. The quarterback dropped back, pocket collapsing under Bears rushers.
Pump fake left; Jax exploded off the line, cutting across the end zone in a post-corner route we'd dissected over breakfast tapes.
The ball sailed—a perfect spiral, arcing through the floodlights.
Time stretched, the world narrowing to this: Jax's cleats digging turf, arms extending, fingers splaying like claws. A safety leaped, fingertips grazing, but Jax twisted mid-air, body gliding horizontal, defying gravity. The ball nestled into his chest with a thud I swore I heard from up here. Feet down—in bounds. It’s a touchdown!
The stadium detonated—confetti cannons firing teal, silver and black shreds, fans leaping to their feet like the ground had electrified.
Beside me, Elena shrieked, pulling me into a hug; Carlos pumped his fist, turning to others in the suite and high diving whoever held their hands up.
I stood frozen, tears blurring the scene, as Jax ripped off his helmet, sweat-drenched hair, dimples flashing in that victorious grin.
His teammates mobbed him, hoisting him up on their shoulders, but he broke free, landing on his feet, jogging to the end zone's edge.
He held the ball aloft, pointing straight to our suite—like a beacon, like a vow.
Then, his free hand circled his belly in a deliberate rub, eyes locking on mine through the glass and chaos.
Our secret, broadcast to the world: the baby, our future.
A sob escaped, joy bubbling over. I pressed both hands to my stomach, feeling the faint kick — our little one celebrating too. Tears streamed; I brushed them away with trembling fingers, careful of the engagement ring's prongs— that diamond, heirloom sharp, a reminder of roots and promises.
Full circle. From childhood dreams to this pinnacle: Jax, champion, father-to-be, mine.
The jumbotron caught it— "Carr Signals to Family!"—zooming on us. Elena waved wildly; Carlos beamed. Public saw the warmth, the realness. No more "fake" whispers; just us, woven tight.
In a blur, Jax’s parents and I are ushered down to the field to join in on the celebrations. With the trophy hoisted high, well deserved MVP chants for Jax, and confetti clinging to the Wolves’ team jerseys.
Jax’s arm is slung over my shoulder, he leans down, his lips touching my ear, "we did it," he breathed, hand on my belly. "All of us."
"You did," I whispered, kissing him quickly.
Later, home in our quiet haven at the stroke of midnight, Jax's head on my lap, hand tracing circles on the bump, we reflected.
From tacos and apologies to this?
Scandal to Super Bowl, friends to family.
Dreams caught, lives intertwined.
Forever started here.