We’re a team again. A family. Whatever fractures formed over the past few weeks are healing, filled in with laughter, competition, and the shared absurdity of professional athletes getting pedicures and then immediately ruining them in a paintball war.
By the time we call a ceasefire, everyone is exhausted, paint-splattered, and grinning like idiots.
“Wings?” Logan suggests, somehow still energetic despite the paint dripping from his hair. “There’s a place down the street. Best Buffalo wings in Brooklyn. They have like forty different sauces.”
“I could eat,” Zayden says.
“I could eat a horse,” Weston adds, which is the most words I’ve heard him string together at once.
We pile into cars and head to the restaurant—adive bar with sticky tables and sports memorabilia covering every inch of wall space. The kind of place where no one cares if you show up covered in paint.
We commandeer the back room, order approximately forty pounds of chicken wings, and settle in.
The conversation flows easily. Zayden tells a story about Maisie’s latest obsession—she’s switched from dinosaurs to unicorns. Archer shares an update on his kids; he’s working on things with his wife, trying to make their relationship better. Logan talks about his plans for the townhouse, which now apparently include a “gaming suite” and a “meditation garden,” which Weston immediately vetoes.
Somewhere in the midst of it all, surrounded by my teammates—my brothers—I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Joy.
Real, uncomplicated joy.
“Hey,” Zayden says, nudging me with his elbow. “You good?”
I look around the table at these men who showed up for me, who forgave me, and who reminded me that family isn’t just about blood—it’s about the people who choose to stay.
“Yeah,” I reply, and I mean it. “I’m good.”
“Good.” He raises his beer. “To Banks. Who finally got his head out of his ass.”
“To Banks!” the table choruses.
I flip them all off with one hand and raise my beer with the other.
“Tothe team,” I counter. “The ugliest, loudest, most annoying group of idiots I’ve ever had the misfortune of playing with.”
“Aw,” Logan coos. “He loves us.”
“I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”
“Sure there is, buddy. Sure there is.” He throws an arm around my shoulder, and for once, I don’t shrug it off.
I let myself be part of it. Part of them.
As the night wears on—wings disappear, beers multiply, and laughter grows louder—I realize something.
I’m not alone anymore.
Maybe I never was.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Family Dinner
Winnie
Banks has faced down two-hundred-fifty-pound men for a living. He once played seventeen minutes with a cracked rib and didn’t tell anyone until after the final buzzer. He is, objectively, one of the most physically intimidating people I’ve ever met.
He is currently fixing his collar in the visor mirror of my car and has checked it four times in the last two minutes.
