Because I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.
I walked into it wearing lace and velvet, knowing he’d follow. Knowing he’d find me. Knowing he’d never let me go.
His fingers tighten around my waist, grounding me. Claiming me. And I feel it, not just in my body, but in my soul. The shift. The surrender. The truth.
I’m not his weakness.
I’m hisanchor.
And he’s mine.
Epilogue
Kane
The lights backstage are too bright, too artificial. They bounce off the polished floors and the glossy draft banners like they’re trying to blind me before the moment hits. Everything smells like nerves—cologne, sweat, adrenaline. I’ve been hearing my name all night, murmured by analysts, whispered by agents, passed between coaches like a secret they’re not ready to share. But no one’s said it to me. Not yet.
I’m sitting between Blair and my father. My elbows rest on my knees, my phone face-up on the table in front of me, silent. Waiting. Blair’s hand is on my thigh, steady and warm, grounding me in a way no one else ever has. She’s wearing black again, lace at the cuffs, velvet at the collar. It’s subtle, but I see it. Ifeelit. A quiet echo of Halloween. Of the maze. Of the moment she stopped running, and I stopped pretending I didn’t need her.
She leans in, voice low and calm. “You ready?”
I nod, but I’m not. Not for the cameras. Not for the stage. Not for the weight of a city on my shoulders. But I’m ready forthem. For the Seahawks. For the call that changes everything.
My father hasn’t said much. Just clapped my shoulder once when we sat down. His silence is heavy, but not cold. He’s watching me like he’s trying to memorize this version of me, the one who made it. The one who didn’t break.
Then my phone lights up.
Seattle area code.
I stare at it for half a second too long. Blair squeezes my leg, and I answer.
The voice on the other end is familiar—Coach or GM, doesn’t matter. It’s the question I’ve been waiting for since I was twelve years old.
“You want to be a Seahawk, Kane?”
I look at Blair. She’s not smiling. She’s watching me. Like she did in the maze. Like she does every time I lose control and she lets me. Her eyes are steady, dark, knowing.
I nod once, then speak.
“Yes, sir. I want to be a Seahawk.”
The moment hits like a thunderclap.
“With the first overall pick of the 2026 NFL Draft, the Seattle Seahawks select Kane Fischer, quarterback, Northern Tennessee.”
The crowd erupts. Cameras flash. My name echoes through Radio City Music Hall like a war cry. I hear it, but it doesn’t feel real until Blair squeezes my leg and myfather exhales beside me, quiet, proud, restrained in the way only he knows how to be.
I stand.
The draft hat is handed to me, navy blue with the silver hawk stitched across the front. I slide it on, adjust the brim, and walk toward the stage like I’ve done it a thousand times in my head. But this time, it’s not a dream. It’slegacy.
The announcer waits with the jersey—number one, crisp and gleaming under the lights. I shake his hand, grip firm, jaw tight, heart pounding. Cameras flash again. Somewhere in the crowd, someone’s already printing my name on a banner.
But I’m not thinking about them.
I’m thinking about her.
Because the second I step off stage, Blair is there, eyes shining like she’s the only one who ever saw this version of me coming. She jumps into my arms without hesitation, legs wrapping around my waist, laughter spilling from her lips like victory.
