“Joe…Joe…” Gordon Hayward croaked.
“What’s up man?” Joe Ingles replied, raising his eyebrows at Gordon, who was lying on the floor of the locker room wrapped in towels like a mummy.
“I’m not gonna make it,” Gordon said weakly, his eyes closed and his face pale. “It’s over for me. I’m done.”
Joe chuckled. “Man, you just got some food poisoning, in Australia our hangovers are worse, you’re not gonna die.” He nudged Gordon’s torso with his foot. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
Coughing a wet cough, Gordon whispered, “You’ll have to be the primary ballhandler from now on. George can’t do it. Dante can’t do it. Raul can’t do it.” He paused here, groaning in pain. “When I’m gone, it’ll either be you or it’ll be nobody.”
“Sure. Whatever you say,” Joe said. “I’m gonna get you some Gatorade and then you’ll be good to go.”
“No, wait,” Gordon said desperately, reaching out one hand to grab Joe’s foot. “Tell my wife and kids and League of Legends team that I love them all so much. So much. Make sure that my bro xXSnipeToKillXx gets the password to my Twitch channel. He’s the only one I trust.” After this final request, Gordon’s grip grew limp, and his hand flopped to the floor.
Further nudges with Joe’s toe prompted no more reactions from his ill teammate. He shrugged his shoulders. “More minutes for me I guess,” he said to nobody in particular. “Pussy Americans.”