God, this is awful.
I’ve never seen my teammate Asher like this. His eyes are wet with tears, and his broad shoulders shake with emotion as he leans against his fiancée, Bailey. She buries her face into his jacket as a single tear slips down her cheek.
There isn’t a dry eye in the place.
Asher’s eighty-seven-year-old grandmother, Lolli, passed away earlier this week. From what I understand, there wasn’t a thing wrong with her—she just went to sleep one night and never woke up. Out of a show of support for one of my teammates, I’m sitting uncomfortably in a funeral home in San Diego. It’s a quick trip with a twenty-four-hour turnaround time because of this week’s game.
Most of the team is here, at least all the guys who are close with Asher. And I realize, for the first time, that I’m t
