Page 29 of Player Misconduct
“I wish,” I say slowly, “I would have married my wife sooner. So we’d have had more time together.”
The group goes quiet for half a beat—then erupts in a chorus of oohs and awws and splashing water. Someone throws a bottle cap at me.
“Well, at least you two have each other tonight,” one woman says, raising her drink. “Most of us are single in this hot tub and apparently dying alone.”
A guy beside her raises his hand. “Not if you change your mind, sweetheart.”
She flashes him a grin. “Are you volunteering?”
“Anytime.”
Everyone laughs, the tension breaking again. But I only half-hear them. My focus is on Kendall, who’s looking at me like she doesn’t know what to do with what I just said.
Then it’s her turn.
Someone leans forward. “All right, Doc. No more stalling. Your regret?”
She hesitates. Her voice is soft when it finally comes. “That I never became a mother.”
The laughter fades. A quiet ripple moves through the water, like everyone feels it.
I reach out instinctively, fingers brushing her shoulder under the surface. She doesn’t flinch, but she looks away, blinking fast.
“I always thought I’d have kids,” she says after a second. “It just… never happened.”
No one knows what to say after that. A few murmurs, awkward shifting. The beer suddenly tastes flat.
She clears her throat, forcing a small smile. “Okay, that’s enough existential crisis for tonight. Someone else go.”
The conversation picks back up—another story, another laugh—but something between us has shifted.
Later, when she’s shivering slightly from the cool air, I lean close and murmur, “Let’s call it a night?”
She nods, relief flickering across her face.
“We’re going to head back. I should get my wife back to our room.”
I climb out first and then give her my hand to make sure she doesn’t slip while getting out. I grab one of our towels and wrap it around her first and then grab my own, leaving the laughter behind as we walk. The desert night air is warm against wet skin.
We walk slow, side by side, the path lit by a few dim courtyard lights. Water drips from her hair onto her shoulders, not covered by the white terrycloth. The stars above are bright—too bright, like they don’t realize the world might be ending.
“Look,” I say, pointing upward. “The Big Dipper. You can see it better out here than in Seattle. No light pollution from the city.”
She glances up. “You actually know constellations?”
“I used to camp with my dad. He taught me to find north without a compass.”
“That’s very Boy Scout of you.”
“Yeah, I didn’t last long. Got kicked out for sneaking vodka into a winter hike.”
She snorts, shaking her head. The sound warms something deep in my chest.
For a while, we walk in comfortable silence, just the sound of our footsteps and the night hum.
Then she says quietly, “You didn’t have to say that. About marrying me sooner.”
“I meant it,” I tell her. “Every word.”
