Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Hey, uhhh…you two might wanna save some of that for later.”
Tucker rolled off me, and we both glanced up to find Ramsey and Garrett smirking and a group of reporters beelining for us.
“Shit,” I muttered. “We probably shouldn’t—”
Tucker silenced me with another quick kiss, then rolled upright. “I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.”
I took his extended hand and let him yank me up, then stared at him in confusion as he immediately dropped back to the ground again, kneeling.
“What…?”
Tucker held up a finger and fished with the other hand just inside the waistband of his football tights. “You told me to bring you a ring,” he said, then yanked a metal band from the string of his pants as my mouth fell open. “So I did. I wasn’t sure I’d have a Super Bowl ring for you, though, so I figured I should have a backup plan. Funny thing, though, this seems like the more important one anyway.” The world around me disappeared as I stared down at the simple silver ring between his fingertips. “You said if I won, you’d give me anything I wanted, was that right?”
I nodded mutely, unable to find words initially, then cleared my throat against the lump that formed in it. “I said that, yeah,” I croaked. “Meant it, too.”
“And you said you were always mine. Wasn’t that right?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “No matter what.”
“Then I want you to say yes to it again, to me, right now.”
“Holy shit, Tucker…” I stumbled forward, my brain finally coming back online as I reached for his extended hand and yanked him to me. “Yes, fuck yes,” I murmured into the side of his neck. Tucker leaned back, eyeing me with a smirk before turning to the crowd that had formed unnoticed around us.
“Let it be known that Patrick Whitt, the biggest pain in my ass of all time, has agreed to continue being a pain in my ass for all eternity,” he hollered.
“Jesus, a fucking trophy and ring weren’t enough for you today?” Cullen joked.
“Nope. Wasn’t complete until now,” Tucker hollered back, then gave him the bird as he turned back and kissed me.
“Next time, we’ll be celebrating your ring,” he said, speaking low in my ear.
Maybe that would come to pass, or maybe it wouldn’t, but I had everything that truly mattered to me already, my heart so full I could barely stand it.
I didn’t need anything else.
EPILOGUE
TUCKER
Five years later
“The most important lessons that you can take home from the Dream Big program are that hard work and dedication pay off, there’s nothing you can’t accomplish if you put your mind to it, and probably the most important lesson of all is never listen to Coach Tucker,” Patrick said to the group of one hundred high school football players.
“Or Garrett!” Ramsey added.
“Count Cullen in that, too,” Houston tacked on at the end. The players laughed the way they were supposed to, and I rolled my eyes.
“Clearly, you can tell which of the coaches will be the most fun,” I added. “And I’ll give you a hint: it’s not Whitt, Ramsey, or the Senior McRae.”
“I hate it when you call me that. I’m not old.” It was a new nickname for Houston that had recently started making rounds. We had to have some way of distinguishing them, and Baby G wasn’t so much of a baby anymore.
There was another round of laughter, energy, and excitement pumping through the air. This was the second summer for Dream Big, the football program we’d started with the McRae brothers, Rams, and Atwood. We’d started planning it while Atwood was still in the league. He and Baby G played longer than the rest of us.
Right now, Garrett was the only one still in the league, but I wasn’t sure how much longer that would last. He’d really fallen in love with the camp like the rest of us had, the group taking a page out of Houston’s love for teaching football to the next generation.
Patrick and I had played one more season after the Rush won our ring. That’s how long we’d each had in our contract, and at the time, neither of us had been ready to let football go. Plus, Patrick had wanted his championship and to break Deion Sanders’ record. While I’d wanted him to have one, I couldn’t pretend it wouldn’t have been cool to win again myself. Patrick had won on both accounts—the Royals going all the way and smashing Deion’s record. The only time I had seen him happier was our wedding day.
While we had both gotten offers to play again after the Royals’ win—not just from our current team but others —we’d decided to walk away together and on top. We weren’t cut out for that long-distance thing. We were too needy for each other all of the time and didn’t care who knew it.