There’s a large outdoor bar area in the shape of a horseshoe that Mrs. Osborne keeps fully stocked. I slide behind it. “Anyone want a nightcap?”
They all decline, which isn’t surprising. While alcohol is in no way forbidden the night before a game—hell, some players even party hard the night before a game—it’s clear these guys aren’t going to do anything to jeopardize their bodies while in the playoffs.
I bend to reach into the small fridge built into the bar unit, then pass out bottled waters to the men. After, I pour myself another glass of scotch. I don’t have to worry about a hangover, but this is only my third drink of the evening. My last, too.
No one bothers to take a seat, pushing away the stools that circle the bar. They lean their elbows on the stone top and it’s not lost on me as I’m behind the U-shape of the bar that they’re circled around the outside, which makes it a bit of an intimate huddle of friends.
“Tonight was really great,” Bishop says. “We needed this.”
“Yeah,” Tacker agrees. “This was perfect. We needed to just settle.”
I shrug, not wanting to admit to my interference. “We just needed to focus on the fact we are more than just a sports team. We’re a family, and no matter what fucking happens tomorrow… we’ll do it together as a family.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Erik says with a grin. He holds his water bottle up, which garners mutters of agreement.
“Any word from Rafe?” I ask Wylde.
It’s been a week and a half since Rafe’s dad died on the day the Cold Fury had game one against the New York Vipers in their conference finals. He didn’t play in that game, but I noticed he was back for the next three where the Cold Fury swept their opponents in four games, securing their spot in the Cup finals.
While we’ve been battling, scraping, and clawing our way through this series, the Cold Fury has been recovering and regaining their strength while waiting to see who they’d play.
“It was good for him to get right back on the ice,” Wylde says. “Said it was his dad’s wish for Rafe not to miss any games after he died. They’ll have a memorial service after the playoffs are finished.”
There’s admittedly a small part of me that’s a bit regretful Rafe isn’t still with us. But I’m happy he was able to spend those precious weeks with his dad before he died, and he’s still able to play. It’s probably the best thing for him.
“I think it bears saying again,” Wylde continues, and there’s something in his tone that has all our eyes glued on him. “It was a real decent thing you did by trading him.”
I brush the compliment off. “I seem to recall asking each of your opinions on the matter, and you all agreed we should do it. It was as much your decision as mine.”
“But you’re the boss,” Legend points out. “It was your call and your skills that got Gray Brannon to make the deal.”
“Regardless,” Wylde says softly. “I know from personal experience… you could not have handed Rafe a better gift.”
Tacker’s gaze drops and he nods as if he knows exactly what Wylde is referencing. Of course, he would. He and Wylde have been best friends for a long time.
There’s pain and regret in Wylde’s tone, and I want to know more because I apparently can’t fucking help myself when it comes to my guys. I open my mouth to ask what, but the sliding door opens. Then, the women come pouring out onto the patio.
“Okay, boys,” Brooke announces as she walks up to Bishop. “As the self-appointed captain of the better-half squad—”
“The better-half squad?” Wylde asks with a laugh.
“That’s us women,” Brooke replies, circling her hand to indicate said females. “You know… the better halves of you men.”
“Speak for yourself,” Wylde retorts with a sly wink. “I’m a better half all unto myself.”
“You’ll have a good woman one day,” Pepper reassures him as she leans over and playfully punches him in the arm.
“No thank you,” he drawls, then gives a faux shudder to make sure we understand he likes being single.
“Anyway,” Brooke continues as she loops her arm through Bishop’s. “It’s getting late, and we want you guys to get a good night’s sleep. So we’re busting up this party and forcibly removing you from Dominik’s house.”
Willow is the last to step out onto the patio. She holds a glass of wine, a smile gracing that beautiful face.
The men straighten, move back from the bar, and pair off with their woman. All except Wylde, that is, who doesn’t ever seem to be bothered during these get-togethers over being the lone single man left in this group.
“Looks like we’re calling it a night,” Erik muses as he grabs Blue by the hand.