I stand, thread my fingers through hers. "The man you’ve all created in your heads? The one you’ve painted him to be? Hedoesn’texist. Not inmyworld. Not inhis. This man has lovedme.Stood by me in ways I never thought possible. I just hope I’ve done the same for him."
With that, she turns on her heels, my hand still in hers, and pulls me toward the exit.
At the door, I pause, turning back to face the crowd. "Just to be clear—I’m retiring from the NBA."
The door clicks shut behind us.
The questions still come, but for the first time in my life, I don’t feel the need to answer a single one.
Chapter forty-seven
Avery
3 months later
Olive’smoansendsashiver down my spine, adrenaline spiking through me.
"You like it?" I ask, watching her eyes flutter closed as she swallows.
She picks up a napkin and dabs her lips.
"This," she says, shaking her head in disbelief, "is what it wassupposedto taste like?"
A teasing smile tugs at her lips, remembering my sad attempt to make this same dish right after we got married.
Our first official date as husband and wife.
I shake my head with a smirk. "Whatever. You and I both know I tried my best that day."
"Your best shouldprobablybe left out of the kitchen," she jokes. "But still, I love you for trying. And I love you even more for bringing me here." A soft blush warms her sun-kissed skin as she looks around.
We’re sitting cliffside, overlooking the beach in Albufeira, Portugal, and for once, everything feels exactly right.
By the time her tour ended, she was burned out. Tired of the travel, the nonstop go-go-go, and just needed to be still.
I asked if she wanted to go home, spend time with her family. Told her I’d follow her anywhere if she wanted me to. But she just shook her head.
"Grangewood Creek isn’t going anywhere. My family isn’t going anywhere. Let’s get away for a little while. Just the two of us."
Then she gave me that smile. The one that always knocks the wind out of me. Two days later, we flew into Lisbon. I’d booked a private villa, just for us.
It’s been our home base as we travel the country—eating like royalty, meeting people who have no idea who we are.
Olive’s even joined a few buskers, clueless that they were singing next totheOlive Herring.
We’ve been away for months.
And while I don’t miss the grind, I do miss the game.
I didn’t expect my love for basketball to fade, and maybe it won't.
But I’m at peace with sleeping in, not getting chewed out by my coach, and not seeing my face plastered on every gossip article in the country.
Olive, though… I can see it in her eyes. She misses the music. The stage.
Whenever I leave to grab food or take a shower, I always come back to her on the couch.
Guitar in her lap. Notebook in front of her. Lyrics scribbled everywhere.
