Teardrop Shot(113)

I whispered out, “Reese.” My hand cupped the side of his face.

He caught my hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing it. Then he rested it against the side of his face. “You think you had all this baggage when we first started.”

I quirked an eyebrow up.

He relented, “And yeah, you might’ve, but you’re going to be fine. You’re going to be amazing. You can do anything you want, and I really believe that. All that stuff you went through, it didn’t break you. It made you stronger, and I think it made you perfect for me.” He paused, swallowing before he spoke again, his voice dropping low to a rasp, “Life with me is going to be hard. I’m the one with the baggage now. There’s going to be fan pressure, women, publicity. Life’s different at this stage, and I think, I really think, you’re my teardrop shot. You’re the high arch in my life. You’re beautiful inside and out, and you’re rare. So very rare.” He leaned down, his mouth capturing mine.

All the love, pleasure, peace in me swirled up, flooding my senses.

I was blinking back tears, my hand moving to his chest. “There was a time when I thought I would never be happy again.” My eyes held his. “I gave it up. I was just trying to find the will to keep going, then you happened.”

Trent.

Owen.

Hadley.

Grant.

“I got back a part of my old life. I got a piece of a new life.” Reese. “And suddenly, I could deal with losing a huge chunk of myself in the in-between. You think I was made for you. Well, I think you were made for me too.” Then I grinned. “I mean, who else still responds to me when I randomly text for thoughts on beluga procreation?”

He laughed, his mouth closing in over mine. “That’s true. I mean, if there’s one thing that keeps me up at night, it’s beluga fucking each other, especially at three in the morning when I’m lying right next to you.”

I laughed, but then his mouth grew more commanding, and I knew the talking was done for the night. I was okay with that.

I was happy.

? ? ?

Reese was right. Life happened after that. A lot of life.

His father emerged from rehab six months later sober and he remained that way. Reese got his dad back. It wasn’t quite the same with his mother. She was treated for chronic depression, survivor’s guilt, and post-traumatic stress disorder.

Through the years, she had ups and downs, but she continued to struggle the rest of her life. She was in and out of mental hospitals, but she tried. She really tried.

As for Damian, the first day he met Reese, he beamed from ear to ear. He ate all of his meals. The nurses marveled at how happy he’d been. By that time, he’d already forgotten about me. I was his friend who watched sporting games with him, and then I became Reese Forster’s woman.

I always got a little sad when he called me that. He never understood why, and I never shared. It was easier to go with the new name. It was the happiest for him. He was proud to know me.

He forgot AJ, but not Mickey or his mother. He remembered both to the end.

He passed in his sleep, five years from Roman’s death. The nurses never heard his bed alarm. When they checked on him for their three am rounds, he was gone.

My family came around, but it wasn’t a happily-ever-after ending with them. They were excited to meet Reese, but I was never able to get past what had happened with Damian. A piece of my heart had died, and though I tried to put it back, it never filled again. I was on polite terms with my family. Polite, but distant, and it stayed that way even while I worked close by in marketing for Echo Island Camp.

I remained with the camp for two years, going back and forth from Seattle.

I only needed to be there half the time, when I was in charge of photo ops and had to document all the busy camp schedules. Reese came with me if he wasn’t training in his off-season, and during my off-season at work, I went where Reese was.

I put in my resignation when I was ready for a career change—and remember that book I said I was going to do for therapy? I finished it.

I published it.

And I’m pretty sure two people bought it: one was Reese, and the other was Stan.

Reese offered to post it on his social media, but I didn’t want that. I wrote that book about Damian and me. It was our relationship, and I enjoyed knowing it was out there in the netherworld of sales. Over the next six months, three more people bought it.

Thank you, whoever you are.

As for Reese and I…





“I’m going to murder you!”

I was holding on to his hand in a death grip, my thighs spread wide, and it wasn’t his head between my legs. A fucking basketball was coming out of me.

I know, I know.

I would love the little basketball. I would adore it. This twenty-two hours of pain would be worth it, or so I’d been promised. The outlook wasn’t pointing that way, but then the doctor looked up. His face serious, his mouth in a perpetual firm line, he said the three most heavenly words that made me want to profess my undying adoration of him.

“One. Last. Push.”

Well, I pushed.

I heaved.

I tried to punish Reese by breaking his hand, and he was cringing, but I knew it wasn’t because of me. His gaze was fixed firmly on that doctor too, and then, with a last shove—I was trying here, so bad, but the epidural was working wonderfully—thank goodness—then the basketball was out of me.