The same forward I volunteered to drive home on Tuesday – if needed – after hisapicoectomy.
Whatever the fuck that is.
And why would I offer to spend one of my non-training summer mornings listening to old tunes in my buds while pretzeling myself into an uncomfortable waiting room chair?
Because that’s what it means to be there for the boys.
That doesn’t just apply to time on the ice.
Harlow “Hot Rocket” Hennington, Owner and GM of my team, along with Milano Blanc – our head coach – believe in being a team…afamily…down to the roots.
It’s one reason I’ve never expressed interest in a trade, and one reason I hope they never become interested in trading me.
That type of “runs in your bones loyalty” is rare.
Especially in sports.
To my surprise, my five-eleven jean dress wearing dream come true folds herself a little closer to me. “I’m not sure what I should order.”
“Is thatyour wayof askin’ me for my opinion?”
“Maybe.”
The sass in her tone gets me thoughtlessly groaning.
“What do you like?”
“I’ll show you mine when you show me yours,” I teasingly state back.
Snickers precede her playfully correcting, “You meantell me.”
“Do I?”
Another round of giggles escapes; however, this time they have her head lolling back.
Curls swaying.
Full tits bouncing, begging to be in my mitts.
Mouth.
Luongohearmenow…this woman is meant to be mine.
We’re talkin’ “Hello Darlin’” Conway Twitty type of mine.
We’re talkin’ French press lavender infused cold brew on a hot summer day kind of mine.
We’re talkin’ willin’ to give up my chance at the fucking Cup to be with her instead level of mine.
Yup.
This is love.
And I don’t even know her name yet.
“Typically,” the bombshell beside me warmly begins again, “everyone else just does the ordering for me. Friends always assume that I’ll just have what they’re having.”
“And dates?”
