Licking my lips, I unbuckle his belt and lower his zipper, pushing his pants and underwear down around his hips. When I take his hot, hard cock in my hand, his breath hisses out of him in a sexy growl.
He kisses me again, his arms forming a cage around me as I wrap my legs around his back, my boot heels digging into his ass. He strokes his cock through my folds and presses against my opening, pausing to stare into my eyes.
“Reyes,” I whimper, squeezing my thighs around him. I want him so badly I’m trembling. That’s what he does to me. What he’ll always do to me.
Sucking on my tongue, he slides slowly into my wetness. Together we groan, reveling in the uniquely perfect fit of our bodies.
“If I didn’t know better,” I rasp between kisses, “I would think you came up with this hayride idea just so you could debauch me.”
He smiles against my mouth. “What a suspicious mind you have.”
“You know I’m right,” I say with a breathy laugh. “You probably paid the driver extra to look the other way.”
“Maybe.” He lifts his head just enough to gaze down at me, his eyes fiercely tender. “I love you so damn much.”
“I love you, too.” I smile softly, sinking my hands into his hair. “I’m so glad you never got over me.”
“I couldn’t, sweetheart. You’re in my blood.”
“And you’re in mine,” I vow. “Forever and ever.”
He lowers his head and gives me another soul-searing kiss.
Then he starts circling his hips, and my whole world narrows down to the only thing that ever mattered: him and me.
Epilogue
REYES
Inglewood, California
Super Bowl LVI
Sunday, February 6
Two years later
It’s the fourth quarter.
We’re up by eight points with one minute and thirty seconds remaining on the clock.
We’re on our forty-two-yard line, moving the ball downfield. Another touchdown will put the game comfortably out of reach and make us Super Bowl champions.
With adrenaline rushing through my veins, I saunter up to the line of scrimmage, crouch behind my center and begin the count. When the ball is snapped into my hands, I drop back in the pocket.
DeVante runs an out pattern and makes the cut, breaking toward the sideline with Jacksonville’s defensive back three steps behind. I have good protection, allowing me to wait before throwing a perfectly timed pass.
As DeVante reaches out to make the catch, the defensive back leaps up and tips the ball . . . right into the safety’s hands.
Fuuuccckkk!
Not wasting a second, I take off running at full throttle, tackling the safety from behind and knocking the ball out of his hands.
The crowd roars as Zach dives on the loose ball, securing it tight to his chest.
Our sideline erupts in celebration while the players on Jacksonville’s sideline stare in disbelief.
The recovered fumble gives us a crucial first down. Since the Jaguars have no timeouts, all we have to do is run out the clock. Not exactly the most thrilling way to close out the Super Bowl, but I’ll fucking take it.
On first and ten, I catch the snap and drop to one knee.
I can see the frustration on the Jaguars’ faces, the weary resignation and crushing disappointment. They played their asses off and fought the good fight. But the better team came out on top.
Several of our coaches and teammates are going bonkers on the sideline, jumping up and down, bumping chests and whooping their heads off.
Grinning behind my helmet, I take one last knee to end the game as the clock hits zero.
The cannons fire, blanketing the field in a hail of confetti as fireworks explode over the stadium and music blasts from the loudspeakers.
My teammates mob me in ecstatic celebration, hooting and hollering and pounding me on the shoulder pads.
“We fucking did it!” Zach yells above the deafening cheers of the crowd. “We’re fucking Super Bowl champs!”
“Hell, yeah!” I shout exultantly, ripping my helmet off.
DeVante grabs me in a crushing bear hug and screams in my ear, “I fucking love you, bro! You’re a motherfucking beast!”
I laugh, returning his backslapping hug. “Couldn’t have done it without you, D!”
There’s lots more hugging, helmet-slapping, back-pounding and shoulder-pad-thumping. Some players are kneeling on the ground with tears of joy streaming down their faces. Others are reuniting and celebrating with their spouses and families.
I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt as reporters pour onto the field, shoving microphones in our faces and shouting questions from every direction.
I scan the teeming crowd, searching for Emerson. And then suddenly she’s right there, a rapturous smile on her lips and tears shining in her eyes. I pick her up and swing her around in a circle, both of us laughing joyously before I lower her to the ground.
As teal-and-black confetti continues raining down from the rafters, she cups my face in her hands and stretches up on tiptoe to kiss me. My euphoria skyrockets into the fucking stratosphere.
We’re surrounded by a scrum of reporters and camera crews, all jostling for a chance to interview me. I’ve been on this stage twice before. I know I need to answer their questions and give them their sound bites.
But Emerson is here with me this time, sharing in this exhilarating moment. And right now, that’s the only thing that matters.
After the trophy presentation, i find myself sitting on a podium in front of a tightly packed crowd of journalists. I’m still wearing my freshly minted Super Bowl Champions baseball cap with the matching championship T-shirt, and I haven’t stopped smiling.
A FOX Sports reporter is talking. “Let me join my colleagues in congratulating you on your huge win and being named MVP, Reyes. You had a stellar night, passing for a whopping 494 yards and scoring three touchdowns—”
There’s an outbreak of appreciative whistles.
“Crazy impressive,” the reporter agrees with a grin. “But at the risk of sounding nitpicky, with less than two minutes left in the game, passing the ball instead of running was a pretty risky move, wasn’t it? I mean, it backfired when your pass was intercepted.”
I chuckle, rubbing my bristly jaw. “It was definitely a risky call in that situation. But that’s what happens in the big game. You take risks and hope they pay off. The Jags are a phenomenal football team. We didn’t want to give them a chance to get the ball back, score a touchdown and attempt a two-point conversion. Our focus was on getting a first down, running out the clock and ending the game.”
The reporter grins. “You ran Henley down like an All-Pro cornerback and made a clutch tackle to recover the ball. What was going through your mind as you chased him?”
“Nothing I can repeat on TV,” I quip.
The room erupts in laughter.
I point to Troy Peters from the Piedmont Bay Gazette.
“Congratulations on your third ring, Reyes,” he enthuses.
“Thanks, Troy. Appreciate that.”
He grins at me. “How do you explain the amazing transformation of this Renegades team in such a short amount of time?”
“Hard work, plain and simple. We had a goal, and we weren’t going to stop until we achieved it.”
Troy’s grin widens. “What do you think about the fact that everyone’s attributing the turnaround to your outstanding leadership as quarterback, and your style of play is consistently hailed as electrifying and transformative?”
I chuckle. “Whew, you said a mouthful.”
The crowd laughs.
I grin, tugging at the bill of my baseball cap. “Seriously though, Troy. I’m honored that people appreciate my contributions to the game I’ve always loved. But no one deserves all the credit for tonight’s victory. I consider myself incredibly lucky to be surrounded by such unbelievable talent. Everyone stepped up to the plate and did their part tonight. We wo
n as a team, and I couldn’t be more proud.”
Murmurs of approval sweep the room.
“One of the most touching moments of the trophy presentation was when you gave the game ball to Walker Hilliard,” another reporter says. “How special was that moment for you?”
“It was very special,” I say, smiling quietly. “Speaking as someone who suits up every Sunday to play with some of the toughest guys on the planet, Walker has to be the toughest person I know. Over the past two years, I’ve watched him battle and overcome leukemia with astounding courage and optimism. He’s taught me so much and has been a huge inspiration to me and my teammates. So it meant a great deal to be able to share this victory with him and his family.”
This elicits appreciative murmurs and smiles.
“Your wife and Lester Talbot have the top-rated sports show in North Carolina,” an ESPN reporter remarks. “Will you be taking the Lombardi Trophy on their show first? Or a competitor’s?”
I smirk-grin. “What do you think?”
The crowd bursts into laughter.
“So what does your little guy think about tonight’s win?” an LA Times reporter asks. “Every time he appeared on the JumboTron, he seemed to be really enjoying himself.”
Grinning, I look down at my five-month-old son perched on my lap. He’s sporting cuffed blue jeans, a miniature Malone jersey and my signature sneakers. He’s been mostly quiet this whole time, chewing contentedly on his favorite teething toy. His warm drool runs down his chin and dribbles onto my knuckles.
Chest swelling with pride, I lean down and nuzzle into his silky dark hair. He looks up at me with greenish hazel eyes that are a striking combination of his mother’s and mine.
I didn’t think I could love anyone as much as I love Emerson. And then our son was born, and I lost my heart all over again.
“What do you think, buddy?” I ask him. “Are you excited about Daddy’s team winning the Super Bowl?”
RJ stares up at me as if pondering the question. Then he looks out into the audience and flashes a big gummy grin.
Warm, adoring laughter fills the room.
Chuckling, I kiss the top of my son’s head and hug him closer. He gurgles delightedly and reaches up to pat my cheek, sending a chorus of “Aww” through the enthralled crowd. I should start bringing him to more press conferences to deflect the media’s ire after bad games.
“RJ looks pretty sturdy and solid,” someone observes admiringly. “Maybe we’ll see him in a Renegades uniform someday.”
I grin broadly. “Maybe.”
“So what’s next for you, Reyes?” another voice pipes up. “What’re you looking forward to?”
“Flying home tomorrow and getting some sleep.”
The crowd laughs.
“What about tonight? How much partying will you be doing?”
“More than I’ll probably remember tomorrow,” I joke.
More laughter ensues.
I smile. “Seriously though. I have a lot of family and friends who came from all over to attend the game. So I’m looking forward to spending time with them and, of course, celebrating with my teammates. On that note, I’m gonna head out. Thank you, folks.” I rise with my son, picking up his arm and helping him wave. “Say bye-bye to everyone, buddy.”
He treats them to another adorably gummy grin.
“Bye-bye, RJ!” the crowd coos and waves as we exit the podium.
Àvia is waiting backstage for us. She beams up at me and gives me a big kiss on the cheek.
“Emerson had to do an interview, but she and the others will meet us outside,” she informs me before plucking RJ out of my arms, smooching his plump cheeks and cooing to him. Since arriving from Spain two days ago, she’s hardly let him out of her sight. Emerson’s mother and Mireia are just as bad.
Àvia cradles the baby in one arm and hugs my waist with the other as we’re escorted to the private exit where a caravan of shiny black SUVs lines the curb. Coach Forsyth gave me permission to skip the team charter bus and ride back to the hotel with my family.
They’re all standing around laughing and talking—Emerson, Dad, Mireia, Grandfather and Grandmother, Greer, Susanna, Alejandro, Uncle Miquel, Aunt Blanca and Uncle Joaquim, Emerson’s mom and her husband Clint.
The rest of our entourage already headed back to the hotel to get ready for tonight’s festivities. The team hired two Grammy Award-winning singers to perform at our postgame victory party, and Aunt Blanca arranged a private midnight celebration for just family and friends.
Renegades fans back in Piedmont Bay are eager for us to bring home the city’s first Lombardi Trophy. The mayor already announced that the city is throwing us a ticker-tape parade befitting royalty. Needless to say, we’re going to be celebrating for a good long while.
My family greets me with another hearty round of cheers, hugs and congratulations. Their proud smiles make me feel fifty feet tall.
I watch as Àvia reluctantly relinquishes RJ to Emerson, placing him carefully in her arms. Emerson cuddles our son close, tenderly kissing his forehead and rubbing circles on his back. He curls into her, resting his head on her lush cleavage and yawning widely.
I gaze down at them, my heart expanding with love and gratitude. I couldn’t have asked for a more amazing mother for our child. I’m the luckiest man in the whole fucking world.
“Let me hold my nephew before he falls asleep.” Mireia gently scoops RJ out of Emerson’s arms and props him on her hip, nuzzling his temple as she coos to him, “Don’t you want to ride back to the hotel with your auntie?”
“Nope,” I interject.
She sputters, “But—”
“I’ve been so busy preparing for the game that I’ve hardly spent any time with my son. Sorry, kiddo, but he’s riding with me.”
Mireia pouts. “But I’ll only get to see him a few times a year, if I’m lucky. Tell him, Dad.”
Dad chuckles, affectionately stroking his grandson’s hair. “It’s your brother’s big night, sweetheart. Don’t give him a hard time.”
Mireia pokes her tongue out at me, then plants a smacking kiss on RJ’s cheek and winks conspiratorially at him. “No worries, handsome. Tia Mireia will kidnap you later.”
The baby grins at her, making everyone laugh as I pry him out of her arms and playfully tweak her nose. She looks so much like our mother, it still catches me off guard sometimes. For that reason alone, I normally give her whatever she wants. But it’s been a long two weeks and I miss my kid—and my wife.
Uncle Miquel claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, folks, we’ve got a lot of celebrating to do, so let’s get this show on the road!”
The group disperses and heads for their respective vehicles. As I steer Emerson toward our SUV, I happen to glance over my shoulder to see Greer holding open the back door of the third SUV in the convoy.
“You can ride with me, princess,” he tells Susanna, half inviting, half commanding.
“I’m riding with Mireia,” Susanna asserts, walking right past him without so much as a glance in his direction.
He chuckles, rubbing a hand along his stubbled jaw. When he catches my eye, I cock a suspicious brow at him.
He gives me a twisted half grin before climbing into the SUV.
Alejandro comes sauntering up to the back door, his green eyes glinting with laughter. Meeting my narrowed gaze, he shrugs a broad shoulder and grins before sliding into the backseat with Greer.
“C’mon, papa bear,” Emerson teases, tugging me toward our SUV. She climbs in first and then helps me buckle our son into his car seat.
Once the three of us are comfortably settled, the driver pulls off, following the caravan away from the stadium. RJ is already dozing off, his head lolling to one side while Emerson and I watch him with tender smiles.
We weren’t planning to start our family for another year, but we were both overjoyed when Emerson got pregnant last winter. Once we found out the sex of our baby, we wasted no time painting and
decorating the nursery, enthusiastically tackling the job ourselves rather than hiring an interior designer. We both loved the results, but we had a hell of a time agreeing on our son’s name.
After going back and forth for weeks, we finally decided to name him after his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. So he’s Reyes Brooks Nicolau Malone, Junior—RJ for short.
Emerson smiles, gently stroking the baby’s dimpled hand. “He already has his grandparents and great-grandparents wrapped around his little finger.”
“Wrapped tight.” I grin. “Aunts and uncles, too.”
“Definitely.” Her smile dims for a moment. “In spite of everything, I’m glad he was able to see him before . . .” Her voice trails off, but I can fill in the blanks.
Her father outlived his prognosis by over a year. As his condition began to deteriorate, he received a compassionate release from prison. We paid him a visit so he could meet RJ. When he saw his newborn grandson, he broke down in tears. Emerson cried, too, and I may have gotten a little choked up myself.
After our emotional visit, Silvio flew home to Italy and died three days after being reunited with his siblings. Following his funeral, Emerson’s aunts and uncles reached out to her. After exchanging dozens of messages and photos, plans were made for us to travel to Italy this summer to meet the Sartoris.
Emerson thinks it’s important for our son to know both sides of her family. I wholeheartedly agree.
Smiling, she reaches across RJ’s car seat to rub my beard-shadowed jaw. “I think this is the longest you’ve ever gone without shaving.”
“Almost,” I chuckle, pulling off my baseball cap and running my fingers through my messy hair. “Àvia gently suggested that I shave before tonight’s festivities.”
Emerson laughs. “You don’t have to. It’s not like you’re rocking a full-on beard. Not that I would mind,” she purrs teasingly. “Facial hair makes you look super hot and dangerous. Like a devilishly sexy pirate.”
“Renegade,” I correct her. “I’m a Renegade, baby.”
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