Page 104 of Play Maker

“Always.”

* * *

I fill the tub hot enough to loosen what aches, with a splash of eucalyptus oil. The room steams around me while I line up fresh towels and light one of the candles he brought when he set up a freaking fairy tale last night for me.

When I call him in, he doesn’t say a word. Just steps into the bathroom, strips down, and climbs into the water with a sound so tired it squeezes my heart.

“What’s that smell?”

“Eucalyptus oil. Mom used to add it to our baths after a rough game.” I dip a washcloth in the water. “Helps relax muscle aches and pains. The scent relieves stress and tension. And it’s anti-inflammatory, so it helps with reducing swelling,” I rub the cloth across his chest.

He moans. “Your touching me counteracts that.”

“You’re in no shape to exert energy.”

He glances at me from out of the corner of his eye.

“I mean, you’re in excellent shape, but you need to rest.”

He closes his eyes, and I can’t help myself.

I whisper, “You need that type of release. I can give you ahandyin the tub.”

He leans back and smiles. “Appreciate the offer, but I’d rather not soak in my spooge.”

“But it’s okay to drown my belly button ring in it?”

“Yep.”

Just yep …

He lets me wash him—slow, careful, reverent—like I’m tending to something precious. Kolby and a piece of history he’s done all he can to make go away, and yet. Somehow, it’s still here.

When I finish washing his hair, I stand up. “Soak and let me know if you need something.”

“Everything I need is right here,Lo.”

* * *

We’re tangled in the sheets, his skin warm and damp from the bath, the scent of eucalyptus still lingering faintly in the air. One lamp is on—dim and golden—the kind of light that makes everything feel softer, quieter, easier to say.

Kolby’s breathing has slowed, but I know he’s not asleep. Not yet.

He lies on his side, facing me, one arm tucked under his head, the other lazily resting on my waist like he doesn’t ever plan to let go. His fingers curl there, slow and idle, brushing against the hem of my shirt like it’s important.

I watch his eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, but so true and steady.

“You okay?” I ask softly, threading my fingers into his hair.

He nods once then pauses. “I’m here.”

And somehow, that means more thanI’m goodorI’m fine.It means he made it. Through the game. Through the noise. Through the past. Tothis.To me.

I trace the edge of his jaw, still faintly rough from a rushed postgame shave. “I like this version of you.”

“What version’s that?”

“The one who knows he’s allowed to rest.”

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