She’s right.
I need to go back.
I need to finish this season.
I need to see if I have another season—or three, or five, or more—in me.
“Promise you’ll come home when you’re done?” I whisper.
“There is no place else that I could imagine going except for home to you.”
EPILOGUE
Fletcher
My mind ison the match. I swear it is.
But there’s been a whisper oftwo days, two days, two daysin my head all day.
Goldie’s home intwo days.
It’s so close now that I can’t compartmentalize it out.
We’re up by twenty in Minneapolis with a few minutes of play remaining until halftime. We’re organizing for a scrum after a knock-on when I hear something from the sidelines that makes me glance over at Coach.
But I don’t see Coach.
I see the stands.
Specifically, a dark-haired woman bundled up in a puffy pink vest over a long-sleeve black shirt, pink Pounders cap covering her head, familiar sunglasses shielding her eyes, standing in the front row waving a silver and black streamer thing.
Goldie.
What the hell?
She’s not supposed to be back for two more days.
And she’s sure as hell not supposed to be coming to an away match.
“Huxley,” Holt barks.
Goldie’s here.
Goldie’shere.
Watching me play for the first time.
I grin at the captain. “Here.”
He gives me a funny look, but we move into position, and for the next three and a half minutes of match play, I bust my ass like I’m ten years younger.
Get two tackles.
Force a turnover.
And am instrumental in the Pounders scoring a try.
My lady’s watching.
