Epilogue
7 Months Later
The midday sun glints off the huge rock on my finger. I’m not used to it. Not yet. I’m not used to these seats either, hanging out with the other football wives and significant others.
While the club level has its creature comforts, I miss the closeness to the action of the sidelines. Most of the action up here comes from gossip, which is plentiful.
Football wives love their drama. There’s a reason housewife reality TV shows are a thing.
Drama is something I’ve tried to steer myself away from ever since the demise of Jake Lawson’s career. Once my post on The Hard Count went viral, and the stories about the GM hit the press, Jake’s rank in the public eye plummeted.
If only the same could happen on the field. He got traded to, of all places, Dallas, who have started this season on fire.
Tate’s first season as the starting quarterback has been rocky. Everyone keeps saying they see a bright future ahead for him. I want to say the same, I’m just not sure. Pro football isn’t easy. He works so hard, but nothing’s a guarantee.
Today, we’re down two touchdowns at the start of the fourth quarter. I can’t even watch the game. Instead I go find a snack.
The bright future I see doesn’t revolve around football. I mean, of course, there will be football. Flag football and pee-wee. I see two kids, maybe three, Tate coaching them to live their dreams, not his. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that Tate won’t be like his father.
Most importantly, I see us together through all of life’s ups and downs. These last few months have been a whirlwind.
We spent every hour of every day of the off season together. He took me golfing so many times I got a sock tan.
We introduced Mal to one of my best friends. We call them Mal and Not Mal.
I’m in the middle of loading a plate down with nachos when the stadium erupts into cheers and applause. I take a tentative look at the screen, then do a double take when I see the score has changed.
We’re down a touchdown with just two minutes left, and somehow Tate has the ball.
He’s drivingdown the field. Lips pressed into my pubic hair, tongue raking through my channel. It’s just like the game, where he scored on a last-ditch Hail Mary to then beat the Cowboys in overtime.
Tate scores again and again.
We celebrate the only way we want to—together.