Page 49
Epilogue
Santiago
Dean’s office smelled of old wood, furniture polish, and suffocating anxiety. I sat stiffly in the leather chair across from Dean Hargrove, my ribs still aching deeply from last night’s parking lot beating, my split bottom lip throbbing every single time I tried to swallow. I hadn’t even had time to emotionally process the violence of the night before I received the official administrative summons this morning.
George’s father stood directly beside Dean’s desk like he owned the entire university, his arms crossed over his chest, his face completely crimson with fury.
“This young man,” Mr. Brooks snarled, pointing a condemning finger straight at my face, “has been an absolute cancer to my son’s athletic career. First, that malicious audio leak during the opening game, and now showing up again last night, talking to NFL scouts behind George’s back? He’s clearly trying to sabotage everything my boy has worked for. I want him expelled from this institution immediately.”
Dean looked incredibly uncomfortable under the patriarch's weight, but he didn’t interrupt.
I stayed completely silent, my jaw locked tight. Part of me wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it. After everything we had shared with each other, secrets, the sting of his leather belt, the welts from cane on my delicate skin, my total surrender on the floor of his boat, and the way George had held me while I sobbed about my oldest trauma, here we were again. Back in the Dean's office.
Suddenly, the heavy oak door slammed open.
George stormed into the room, still wearing his gray practice sweats, his dark eyes blazing with a protective anger I rarely saw directed at anyone but myself.
“Dad, what the flying fuck do you think you're doing?” he growled, slamming the door shut behind his mass.
Mr. Brooks turned sharply, his brows knitting. “This doesn’t concern you, George. Go back to the training facility. This piece of shit has been trying to ruin your entire future, and I'm handling it.”
George didn't hesitate. He stepped directly between me and his father, towering, immovable, and fiercely protective.
“Santiago is not trying to sabotage me, Dad. Not even when Pavel cornered him, blackmailed him, and beat him bloody in the lot last night,” George said, his voice ringing clear and steady through the office. He turned his passionate, dark brown eyes down to mine, holding my gaze as he declared to the room, “He’s my boyfriend.”
The entire room went dead silent. I could hear my speeding heartbeat, while I looked into George’s determined brown eyes.
Mr. Brooks stared at his son as if he’d just been struck across the face. His features twisted into a volatile mixture of utter disbelief and disgust.
“Boyfriend?” he hissed, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register as he stepped directly into George’s personal space. “Don’t you ever repeat that garbage. Not in public. Not anywhere. If a single sports writer finds out about this, your professional career is finished before it even has a chance to start.”
George didn’t flinch an inch.
“I’m not hiding who I am anymore,” he said coldly. “I already talked to the front office. The scout knew exactly who he was signing when he brought out the paperwork.”
“Signing?” His dad paused, a sudden chuckle of disbelief breaking through his anger as his chest expanded with competitive pride. “You’re telling me... you already signed the draft pool intent?” He punched George’s shoulder playfully, but the force did absolutely nothing to move George's frame. “That’s my boy.”
“It’s all because of Santiago,” George countered, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he held my gaze. “He put in the definitive word for me with the league reps.”
I looked up at George, completely stunned, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs.
“Oh, did he?” Mr. Brooks cleared his throat, shifting his weight uncomfortably as his stance softened. “Well... I’m sorry, boy. There has clearly been a massive misunderstanding on our part, of course. But the boyfriend thing... no offense, kid,” he directed toward me, before leaning in to whisper strictly to George, “It’s professional football we are talking about, son. You need to think with your head. It’s your entire career.”
“Dad, I don’t want a career where I have to lie about the person I’m coming home to,” George said, his tone absolute. “If honesty costs me the NFL, then fuck the league.”
My breath hitched. I stared up at him, my soul cracking wide open. This was the exact same man who had bullied me in high school, who had blackmailed me into his bed out of pure malice... now standing up to his own father to protect my place by his side.
Before Mr. Brooks could explode, the door opened a second time.
The regional scout, the exact same man I’d spoken to at the field barrier after the victory, walked in wearing a sharp team polo. He evaluated the thick tension in the room, then broke into a warm, professional smile.
“George Brooks,” the scout said, extending his hand firmly. “Congratulations, son. You’ve officially qualified for our primary draft pool. We were incredibly impressed with your performance last night both on the field and off.”
The scout then turned to me, shaking my hand with a deep nod of respect.
“Santiago here told us how hard you’ve both been working to push through some difficult personal history together,” the scout continued, looking back at George. “In our organization, we value leadership that extends far beyond the turf, supporting fellow students, demonstrating personal growth, and taking accountability. It says a lot about a young player’s core character. We’re exceptionally excited about what number seventy-two brings to our franchise.”
Mr. Brooks looked like he was on the verge of a medical emergency.
