Epilogue
About two months later…
Thayne
“I miss you” sex is pretty hot.
“Let’s Get It On” level of shit.
But “don’t be sad” sex?
Smidge hotter.
It’s the type of thing I imagine Marvin Gaye meant when he sang about “Sexual Healing”.
Gillybean’s heels kick recklessly into my clenching ass cheeks as I frantically pound into her faster.
Harder.
Carelessly.
Vigorously.
Determined not only to drain my shaking frame of every ounce of sadness that’s been conjured up but to fill hers with joy.
And meaning.
And love.
“Such a good girl lettin’ me have you like this Slayer,” escapes in airy praise, hand clumsily slapping Grams’s kitchen cabinet beside her head. “Lettin’ me give you this.”
Wetness steadily seeps past my base, drenching my balls and thighs alike, baptizing them both in the most primordial of ways.
Ways that have me snarling.
Hissing.
Snaking bites of her bottom lip just to hear her sweetly whimper my name. “Jukes…”
Fuck, I love when she calls me that.
I love how it feels.
Heals.
Claims.
Simultaneously resets the track and starts a new one.
A second nip causes her to toss her head back and callously collide with the cabinet on a croaked, “Thirty-five!”
And I love when she screams that.
Claims me.
Surrenders.
That shit’s better than the first sip of brew hungover.
“You’re so fuckin’ close for me, baby,” is whispered along the shell of her ear, dick diving quicker and quicker, pussy swelling tighter and tighter.
“Can you give me that dub?” Heat feathering itself against the sensitive territory leads to her shivering.
Grabbing a fistful of my orange, vintage Flogging Molly t-shirt to yank me closer and deeper despite my inability to actually get there.
“Can you give me one last dub in this barn, Slayer?”
The hitch in Gilly’s breath reverberating around the almost empty house I grew up in is undeniably spine snapping. “Yes…”
My forehead pressing against hers is immediately followed by my nails scraping at the wood without care about the damage that’ll be left behind.
Because it doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
Nothing but me and her, and her and me, and finishing the final period in this place on the best note possible.
It’s what Mom would want.
It’s what Gramps would want.
And I know for a fact that it’s what Grams wanted considering her last words were to leave nothing behind here except a soul song.
Which is what Gillybean brings out of me.
Especially when we’re connected like this.
“J…” gets caught in her throat pushing her to feverishly rock forward as if trying to fuck the rest of my name free. “Ju…”
“Such a beautiful sound, Slayer,” I huff, other arm possessively winding around her frame.
“My favorite sound.” Additional moans precede white hot pulsations that have eyes screwing shut.
“Better than any crowded barn.” The wobbling in my knees convinces them to grow in numbers and intensity.
“Better than any sold out concert.” Yanks of my shirt abruptly begin in tandem with hot huffs against my lips and torrid thrums around my shaft.
“You’re better than anything.” Breathless screeches start swirling throughout the thick air. “You are my everything…”
“Give me everything, thirty-five…” One last solid tug of my tee paired with those words breaks whatever resolve I had left. “Make it our dub…”
Sloppy smacks to the cabinet are timed to sweltering surge after surge searing her orgasm and sparking an unexpected second.
Both of Gilly’s hands latch onto my pecks as my fingers dig into her ribcage, fingers playing the notes recently tatted into her beautiful skin, notes I got on on mine, on the same side, wanting the whole world to know we’re on the same team.
Same song.
Same fucking note.
Low, feral groans rattle around my throat, luring her to continuously sway towards them, coating my cock in toe-curling slickness that I know I’ll never get tired of singing praises over.
Despite being sweaty and sticky and finished, neither of us rushes to move or disconnect.
Not now.
Not when our panting is practically one last outro to the life I once knew.
Being granted a leave of absence from the team wasn’t hard.
And unfortunately, it wasn’t too long.
Once Grams was stable enough to get out of the hospital, she was home for about a week and then passed – in her sleep – the day after Christmas.
Yellow Heart Road truly lived up to what they had promised.
Everything from getting her removed to cremated to what happens to the house and when was handled.
The only thing we had to do was convey what we wanted in terms of a memorial.
Truthskies?
It was a glove save made by Grams that I didn’t even know I was gonna need.
Not having to think or make tough decisions in a moment where I could barely lift my own head up was amazin’.
And so was havin’ Gillybean here for every step of the process.
She was like gospel bells on a Sunday.
Well-timed.
She also did most of the communicating with the company and caring for Bronny when it was clear I couldn’t, when I needed a moment on the bench to simply, let go.
Bronny – who already left in the other truck with Dubs and Nee, the happy couple that’s planning to get married this summer – let her care for him.
Let her spoil him with attention and affection.
She stayed on top of his school stuff with him.
Made sure he had gym and weights time with me to keep up his endurance training for lacrosse.
They went Christmas shopping together without me, to give me space, to give me a chance to just not be needed for a second.
It was the parental shift Grams warned us would naturally occur.
And it did.
Like a smooth fade from one to tune to the next.
During her final days we all spent time with her together as much as separately.
She embarked her last bits of wisdom – mostly in regards to dessert making and big pharma alternatives for basic ailments.
Made us swear to spend less time being sad about those we’ve lost and more time being grateful for the memories we had together.
It honestly just felt like a typical goodbye.
The type I’d been giving most of my life when it was time to go play in another city or state or country.
Coach – um – Mil came down with his parents for the memorial, missing a game along with Frosky’s New Years Eve wedding. Of course, Snowman understood and the boys all sent love to us while we sent them good vibes and cheers – and gifts to the wedded couple according to Gillybean.
It was hard missing that moment.
Other team moments.
Events.
Outings.
Dinners.
Games.
Fuck.
So many games.
Seeing Mil made it a little easier.
Plus, having him and his parents excited over our engagement definitely helped me skip the guilt track more than once.
In spite of hitting the nearest rink a few times a week to stay in shape and stay sane, getting back on the ice last month was still hard.
My first loss was expected.
The next accepted.
The third had me trying to bench myself, but there’s a reason I’m not the boss.
And a reason Hot Rocket fought so hard to sign me.
And after a little extra pracky with my goalie coach along with the boys in their spare time, I found my rhythm again.
We’re talkin’ Gloria Estefan style.
We’re talkin’ Ian Dury and The Blockheads level.
We’re talkin’ Snap! shit.
I went from struggling to catch anything to an inability to miss anything.
I’m currently back to leading the league in shutouts for the season with this little calendared winter break welcomed.
It’s only a couple days, but that’s all we needed to move the things we didn’t wanna sell out of Grams house before it’s officially transferred to the Shaws.
They’re good people.
Always have been.
There’s no growing up in Middlebrook and not knowin’ or runnin’ into at least one of ‘em.
Grams selling to their family for the land to be turned into more space to grow their now world wide known beer makes a lot of sense.
Plus, us getting a free batch each season for the next couple of decades makes the whole sale a little sweeter.
Post a somewhat chaste kiss, Gillybean giggles. “Would it be weird if we made one more cup of coffee in that before we hit the road?”
I let my eyes briefly meet hers prior to letting them fall to the last object we need to pack, the coffeemaker I can hardly still believe works after so many years. “Nah. I think that would be pretty good Verve treatment.”
A fake gasp escaping my fiancée causes her muscles to clamp down around my softening cock in such a way it threatens to stir it back up for an encore. “Did you just make a song reference post the 2000s?!”
“No, Slayer, I did not.” Gingerly sliding myself out and back into my jeans is effortless.
“’Bitter Sweet Symphony’ – which mos’ people don’t realize was more than jus’ a tiny sample of The Rolling Stones ‘The Last Time’ – was released in ’97.
” Reaching for a nearby, clean dish towel occurs next.
“Ya know.” I turn the faucet on to warm water.
“Same year Third Eye Blind made the insanely catchy ‘Semi-Charmed Life’.”
She waits until I’ve hummed a couple notes of the song to good-naturedly groan, “Ughhhhhh…those notes always get stuck in my head!”
“I can play ‘em really well on the kazoo.”
“Of course you can,” Gillybean snickers while waiting for me to gently clean up the mess I’ve made.
And it’s one mess I never get enough of seeing.
Or really makin’.
Now that we’ve officially moved in together – something that happened the instant we made it back to Dalvegan – figuring out when to do the dirty tango is a lot less difficult, although the teen does make getting creative still fairly necessary.
But a little less than before.
His continued strive for independence – his own friends, his own interests, his own sport – provides quite the apple in that aspect.
Getting her house sold is next on the never-ending list of things to do now that we’re officially wrapped up with Grams – who I know is watchin’ over us with Gramps and Mom.
I appreesh that my Slayer didn’t rush to get that done.
That she didn’t add additional stress to still fragile ice.
That she let me play lead and sang backup so to speak.
I always strive to do the same for her.
I always will.
Whether that’s expanding her practice – something she might consider next year once she gets her schedule back on track – or speaking at sexual harassment seminars to other hockey teams – on behalf of the league’s determination to do better in that regard – or simply trusting Bronny to drive himself to school in his new, used car – now that he officially has his license – I am happy to go with her flow rather than having her have to go with mine.
Is it easy?
Typically.
I love that she has her voice, that she uses her voice, that when anyone comes for it, she stands taller now.
Doesn’t mute herself.
Or try to lie first.
Would I have preferred that pigeon who I laid out get more than a minor league suspension, a fine, and sexual harassment rehabilitation classes?
Yes.
Except it wasn’t about me.
It wasn’t about what I wanted – especially since no charges were filed in my direction.
It wasn’t about what I thought was best.
And I got that.
Mil on the other hand?
He’s still struggling to understand that concept as well as letting her speak for herself.
It’s an ongoing process, a lot like repairing the fractured trust that came from hiding the topic of us.
But similar to everything else in life – including the harder miles in our own relationship – it’ll get better with pracky.
And it’ll be worth the work.
It certainly is to me.
Because at the end of all, that’s what makes the tuneskie Gillybean and I make together so much sweeter than anything else out there.
***
Thank you for reading The Tendy (Dalvegan Dragons #4)!