“Yes, I love you too.” Wraith leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Rest now,munnen min.”
“What’s that mean?”
“My mouth.”
I laugh at that even as the world blurs around the edges. “Gonna suck you when I wake up.”
“Okay, lover.”
“How do you say I love you in Norwegian?”
“Jeg elsker deg.”
“Jesker do elg,” I repeat, badly. “Oof, I’m so sleepy.”
“Close enough.” Wraith chuckles.
He brushes his hand over my forehead, and before long, I’m carried away on a cloud of sleep, visions of this beautiful, complicated man filling my mind.
A week later, I head to my front door when the doorbell buzzes. Minutes later, Hen, Andres, and Landham enter my foyer. I invited them over to clear the air about a few things and finally admit things I never thought I would.
I haven’t seen any of them in person since my injury, but they’ve all texted me to check in. They’re the only ones who have besides Coach—that’s why they got the invite.
“Hey, guys. Come on in.”
I’ve got beer and catered barbeque laid out on my dining room table. The guys are careful with my shoulder as they greet me, and I can practically feel the curiosity rolling off them like waves. I’ve never once invited any of them into my home or spent time with them outside of partying after games and travel.
The team travels back to Chicago tomorrow and then threemore away games, and it sucks that I have to miss out, but there’s no way I could play with my shoulder the way it is.
“How’s the shoulder, man?” Hen asks as he pops the top on a beer.
“Honestly? Not good. The trainers are doing what they can to get me in playoff condition, but…” I pause, exhaling. “I need surgery to repair it.”
The guys look at me with grim faces, but I smile.
“It’s okay. I want to be there for the playoffs and I’m gonna do what I can to help the team. This is not how I want to finish my career.”
“Finish?” Landham asks. “So you really are thinking about retiring?”
“Not thinking about it anymore. It’s happening. I’ve pushed this body of mine as far as it’s gonna go. Besides, I’m just a loudmouth who starts fights.”
“That’s not true, Bouche,” Andres says. “You’re part of our foundation.”
“Thanks, man, but you still have Hen, and who knows who they’ll sign to take my spot.”
“Won’t be the same,” he mumbles.
“It’s just part of the cycle. Get some food.”
Once we’re all loaded up and sitting in my living room, my nerves kick in. I’ve rarely said these words out loud to people, and to say it’s daunting is an understatement.
Halfway through our meals and shooting the shit about other teams and players, the conversation dies down, and that’s my cue.
“I invited you guys here to tell you something.”
“Not just the retirement part?” Landham asks.
“No. Uh, you guys are the only ones from the team who called to check in and see how I was doing, and I really appreciate it. More than you know.”
