Page 89 of The Break Down

All those worries and anxieties about my legacy they simply float away like they never existed.

Because at that moment, in the breakdown of it all—I win.

Finley said yes, so fuck yeah, I win.

“Easy champ. Your coach is calling,” Finley says, kissing me once before stepping back.

“Don’t care. I just want you.”

“Oh, you got me alright. Now, get out there and kick some ass. I don’t want to be engaged to a loser,” she snarks.

“God, I love your sassy mouth, Red,” I say, kissing her one more time. “And I plan to fuck it. Right after I win this match.”

For the first time, I render my girl speechless. And yeah, I feel cocky as fuck over that.

And I’m determined it won’t be the last time. After all, now that she’s mine—now that she’s said yes—we have forever.

And I can’t fucking wait.

EPILOGUE-LUCA

When the fuck did my life become a goddamn Instagram reel?

Music, lights, people yelling out bids like we’re at a damn cattle auction—and me, standing on a stage in a button-down so tight it might as well be a second skin.

A bachelor auction.

For charity.

For fuck’s sake.

This wasn’t in the contract.

This wasn’t in the player handbook.

This isn’t what I signed up for when I left my family’s legacy and all their gold-plated expectations behind to chase a ball around a field.

Now I’m supposed to smile, wink, and parade my ass around like a Chippendale reject while strangers throw money to win a date with me?

No.

Absolutely not.

I’ve spent my whole life around women with money and perfect hair and dead eyes.

Poor little rich girls with $1,200 handbags and souls as shallow as a champagne flute.

I know their game.

And I have zero intention of being a prop in some bored socialite’s photoshoot.

But then the spotlight hits her.

Her.

She’s not dressed for attention.

Not dripping in jewels or posing for Instagram.

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