Extra Epilogue
brADY
This was it. My second Super Bowl as the Nighthawks starting quarterback. We’d come so fucking close last year, and I’d be damned if I let another ring slip through my fingers.
The tension was so thick, it stole my breath for a moment. Eighty thousand fans screaming loud enough that the turf hummed beneath my cleats.
Fourth and goal. Five seconds on the clock. Down by four.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and met the eyes of my linemen through the chaos. Our uniforms were streaked with turf, adrenaline pumped through our veins, and there was determination in our eyes. No one blinked.
Coach called for a safe play—short slant. But my gut said it wouldn’t work.
I scanned the defense and saw the blitz loading before they even shifted.
The defense was stacked in the box, waiting to swallow it whole.
I trusted our coach, but there was no room for fucking error here.
A quick glance at the Nighthawks’ family box, and I grinned at my wife and kids clapping and screaming like maniacs.
My good luck charms.
My eyes locked with Prentice’s as he paced on the sidelines with the other coaches. He stared back for a half a second before I saw the tiniest nod.
Trust your gut, not the headset.
I glanced at Rush and tapped my helmet twice. He knew. We’d been doing this too long not to. He’d only been on the team a couple of years, but it hadn’t taken long for us to build trust as teammates and become good friends. Now, working together was second nature.
“Kill, kill, kill!” I barked, changing the play at the line. The crowd noise drowned half the words, but my guys knew. They always knew.
The snap came high—too high. I snagged it one-handed, dropped back, and instantly felt the collapse.
My left tackle got bulldozed, and I felt the heat at my back.
Instinct took over. I spun left, pump-faked, dodged one, then another.
My cleats slipped on the churned turf, my knees bent low, and my body twisted out of a sure sack.
Shit.
The pocket was gone.
The play was dead.
But I wasn’t.
No fucking way.
I rolled hard to the right, chased by three giants in blue and gold. Everything was noise and blur. The roaring crowd, pounding feet, adrenaline cutting through my veins like lightning.
A defensive end dove for my legs, but I hurdled him and nearly lost the ball. My vision tunneled. The clock was bleeding out. I was running out of field and time—one step from the sideline, half a second from doom.
“Throw it away!” someone shouted from the sideline.
Not a fucking chance.
This was it. I could practically feel the ring weighing down my finger. And I wanted it. A W was the only fucking option.
Then I saw him. Rush. At the back corner of the end zone. He broke free, and his hands were up.
It was a throw no sane quarterback made. Cross-body, forty yards, off-balance, and against momentum. But I wasn't sane right now.
I planted my foot, twisted, and let it fly.
The ball spiraled like light itself.
Time slowed. The roar faded. It was just me and that perfect spiral hanging against the night.
Rush leapt for the ball, fingertips brushing the pass. He hauled it in midair, came down hard and slammed it to the turf.
Silence—then the ref’s arms went up.
Touchdown.
All the air in my lungs rushed out, and I dropped to my knees as the clock hit zero.
It was fucking pandemonium.
The crowd went ballistic, and my teammates flooded the field, helmets flying and coaches shouting. Somewhere in the crush, someone handed me the game ball.
I looked up through the confetti haze and found the only face that mattered.
Talia.
She had one hand over her mouth, tears streaking down her cheeks, our son on her hip and our daughters standing on their seats, waving their arms wildly in the air.
I lifted the ball, pointed it at her, and mouthed, That was for you.
Because I wouldn’t have made it this far without her. I might have become the starting quarterback. Even won some Super Bowls. But it would have felt hollow, even if I hadn’t known why.
I wouldn’t have the life I fought for every time I stepped on the field. Or the fire that pushed me to be the best. I wouldn’t be able to see a future beyond the turf and goal posts.
Now, I knew not to fear the day when I hung up my cleats permanently. Because what came next…it would be an adventure even more exciting.
Rhodes is the next Nighthawk to get his happily ever after in Illegal Touching!
Curious about Justice Kendall and his wife Blair? Read their billionaire, age gap story in His Love! But be warned…he is very much an over-the-top obsessed hero!
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