Epilogue
Mason
The bar hadn’t changed.
Same cracked leather stools. Same dim lights. Same bartender who didn’t bother asking what I want anymore.
The glass appeared in front of me anyway. Whiskey.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Six months ago, I would’ve thrown it back without thinking. Probably ordered another before the burn even faded.
Tonight, I didn’t touch it. Instead, I pulled my phone from my pocket.
The article was still open.
I’d already read it three times, and the words still looked strange on the screen.
Former Wrighton player, Mason Sterling, was cleared of wrongdoing following a formal review of an ongoing internal investigation.
Cleared.
I leaned back slightly on the stool, rubbing a hand across my jaw.
It was a quiet correction. Not a big announcement, no official apology. Just a short story buried halfway down a sports page.
Almost as if the world had shrugged and said ‘our mistake’ before moving on.
My name had been cleared.
My life hadn’t.
The television above the bar showed a college game. Wrighton’s colors flashed across the screen for a moment before the broadcast cut to another play.
I looked away. I didn’t watch much football anymore.
My leg sometimes ached when the weather shifted, but the doctors had been pleased with my recovery.
My career was still over.
These days, most people wouldn’t even remember I played. I picked up the glass and turned it slowly in my hand.
The whiskey sloshed against the sides.
For a long time, I’d told myself the same thing. It’s done. There’s nothing you can do. Move on.
It had been easier that way. Easier to let the anger drown out everything else. Easier to fade away into resentment.
But that stupid article had cracked something open. Briar and Noah had cracked something open inside me that had been sealed shut for four years.
A thought I hadn’t let myself have before.
Maybe I hadn’t moved on.
Maybe I’d just . . . accepted it. Accepted the silence. Accepted the ruined career. Accepted the way everyone had looked at me like the ending had already been written.
I set the glass back on the bar untouched.
For the first time in a long time, the bitterness in my chest didn’t feel dull.
It felt sharp.
Focused.
Maybe it was time to decide how my story ends. My eyes drifted back to the television. Somewhere on another field, under another set of lights, a whistle blew.
And for the first time in four years . . . I wondered who had really taken football away from me.
“Hi. Is this seat taken?”
I turned to the guy in a sharp suit. I looked at the practically empty bar.
“There’s no shortage of seats,” I told him gruffly.
“Yes, but this is the one I want.” He picked up my whiskey, sniffed, and put it back down on the bar. “Jesus, is that even allowed to be labeled whiskey?”
I pulled the glass to me protectively. “You always insult strangers’ drinks?”
His look was weirdly unsettling.
“No, but I want to.” He smiled slyly. “I’ve got a proposition for you.” He looked me over critically. “Are you interested in hearing it?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Onyx Santo.” He saw that I recognized his name. “You ready to listen to me now, Mason?”
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