CHAPTER ELEVEN
Michael
I’ve been more involved in the school lately.
Not because I have to, but I’m actually enjoying being around the kids.
They’re loud, entertaining, and they distract me from all the adult crap.
During Little League two days ago, one of the kids brought a jersey for me to sign.
Probably their dad’s, judging by the size.
But I signed it and enjoyed it nonetheless.
I’m sitting in the classroom with Kate. Well, sitting is a gracious term for what I’m doing. Everything here is tiny so I’m either on the floor, or sitting on two chairs. Today, I’m doing the latter.
“What’s that?” I ask Kate as she dumps a giant box on her table. It’s seven o’clock, just an hour before the kids arrive.
“Props. We’re storytelling today.” She’s elbow deep in the box that’s almost as big as her, then brings out a giant caterpillar made out of colored paper. This is followed by plastic food toys. “It’s called The Very Hungry Caterpillar.” She proceeds to unpack everything in her box.
I take the caterpillar and move it animatedly. “So, how do you want me to be involved in this?”
“Just… be the caterpillar. He really doesn’t have dialogue, but you can wing it. Maybe add a few ‘yums’ and ‘wows’ every now and then.” She hands me the book. “You can read it if you want.”
I skim through the book, get the caterpillar again, and say, “Wow, grapes. At last, salvation.”
“Okay, he’s a caterpillar. Not a war veteran.”
“Yeah, but he’s been hungry for days, Katie. That’s starvation.”
She shakes her head. “Just stick to yums and wows.”
I pick up the caterpillar again, and this time, switch to a more cheerful voice. “Oh boy, oh boy, a grape! I love grapes!”
Kate stares at me like she’s annoyed, but holding back laughter. “I’m funny. Admit it,” I say as I toss the caterpillar back to the table.
She just rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. And eventually, a laugh escapes. And I smile in return. I’m not usually like this. I never thought I would ever be in a preschool classroom, dramatizing caterpillar dialogue.
But as Kate laughs again, I realize that I like it.
Not her, obviously. The serotonin. The validation. The completely platonic adrenaline rush of making someone laugh.
Everyone loved the story. I stuck to Kate’s yums and wows, and now it’s nap time. A time when everything is quiet and calm. Sure, it’s only fifteen minutes, but I’ll take it. Just as I’m settling down, my phone rings. I quickly make my way out of the room.
“What’s up?” I ask as I duck out of Kate’s classroom, stepping into the hallway. I walk past a bulletin board that says ‘We are all little miracles’, decorated with glitter.
“Checking in,” Heather says. “How’s the small town life?”
“Good, actually,” I reply. “Why? Any problem?”
There’s a pause before Heather says, “It’s not a problem. But, people are starting to miss you.”
I pause near the water fountain. It’s more or less three feet tall and shoots at an angle that guarantees wet pants. Don’t ask me how I know.
“What people?” I ask.
“The public. The internet. Your fans. The sports reporters who keep DM-ing me.”
“Isn’t that the point? For them to miss me? What’s the fuss about?” I ask, suddenly being whisked back to the noisy cities. The noisier arenas.
“Yeah, but they miss you so much that they might forget you. Back then, even off-season, you were… visible. A charity game. A podcast. A shirtless selfie with a basketball and some vague quote about grit.”
I chuckle. “You were the one who asked me to do that.”
“And it worked. That photo alone got you a brand deal,” she replies.
“So, what do you want me to do now?” I ask. I trust Heather with my career. With my life, even. She always knows what to do to make me look good. It’s the part I like least about fame. You always have to act a certain way, and it’s easy to be misunderstood.
“Post something. An Instagram story. But keep it wholesome and just enough for people to know you still exist, but not too much for them to come up with conspiracy theories. This one guy from TikTok is already claiming that you’re shifting to a career in priesthood.”
I scrunch my nose. People are absurd sometimes. “Fine, fine, I’ll work on it,” I say.
“Today, please,” she says before she shuts the call down.
I pull out my phone and glance around. No kids in frame. No visible name tags. Just me, alone in a hallway that smells faintly of crayons, and, disgustingly, a stinky bathroom. I look for a bare wall that doesn’t give away that I’m at a preschool.
I snap a photo of the bare hallway.
Just as I put my phone down, I see Kate’s face peeping from the door.
“Sorry, I really need extra hands over here.” I unwittingly click on ‘post’ and the hallway photo goes live as the most boring photo on Instagram. I walk over to Kate.
“Yeah, how can I help you?”
She gets out of the room completely, and I can’t help but laugh. There’s a small green handprint on her chest, and her dress is soaked at the bottom.
“Shut up, just… help!” she exclaims.
“What exactly happened in there?”
“If you must know,” Kate whispers as I enter the room. It’s nap time, the kids are all calmed down. One is drooling, one is pretending to sleep, others have their socks off.
“It was hard to put them down for nap time. Elliot wouldn’t lie down unless I let him add a handprint to the art wall–” She points to the free wall she has for her students, adorned with everything– “but he tripped on Justin’s open, absurdly large bottle of water, and we fell together.
I landed on the puddle and his hand landed, well, here. ” She gestures to her chest.
I try not to look at it. I really do. But the green is neon. But it’s also right there on her…
“Stop staring!” she shrieks.
“I’m not staring! You pointed it out!” I exclaim. I feel the heat rush to my ears when I say, “Just get the mop, will you? I’ll fix this.” I gesture to the puddle of water. Who the hell gives their toddler more than a liter of water?
Kate arrives with the mop. Her sweater is now removed, her hair attempting to escape her ponytail. I also see that the neon green paint is apparently not just on her dress, but her skin, too. Her collarbone. I take the mop and look away immediately.
From my peripheral, I see Kate attempting to wipe the green smudges off.
Since I know she’s concentrating, I sneak a glance.
She’s sitting on a child’s seat, but somehow, it looks like it’s the right size for her.
Her brows are furrowed as she aggressively wipes the paint.
Before she can catch me staring, I look away.
Nothing to see there, anyway.
And then, my phone buzzes. Relentlessly. Notification after notification fills my phone. I stop mopping for a moment, then check it.
Shit. I have three texts from Heather.
HEATHER
I quickly check my Instagram story of what I thought was a boring hallway. Only to see a head peeking out of the door. And curly hair. Now it looks like I framed it to capture her, and not the hallway. Shit.
It’s a good thing she’s looking the other way, her face isn’t clear. But people are going to notice. Pretty sure most of them already have. With over five million followers, things like this escalate quickly.
Heather is calling, but I ignore her for now. She sends me a screenshot of the trending topics today. And there, at number seven…
Michael Lee Girlfriend
This is not good. Not good at all.
I’ve had girlfriends before, of course—all of them perfectly polished, poised, ready for cameras. Because I thought that was what dating meant. A performance of sorts.
But all those relationships barely lasted a year.
Most would break up with me because I was, as usual, too nonchalant.
Closed off. Uninterested. But really, I just don’t know how to open up to anyone.
I tried it when I dated an actress. I tried to open up to her—told her stories about my childhood, my parents, that time I choked on a finals game.
But even then, it felt… forced. Like I’m just saying what I’m supposed to say.
It’s not fair, I know. Not to the people I date. But the truth is, I’ve never really had anyone to talk to like that. I mean, there’s my sister, and we’re close. But even with her, there are things I don’t touch. Things I keep folded up in a corner of my head.
So, when the women I date start asking for more—which, yeah, is the bare minimum—I do what I always do.
I run.
Now imagine how this post is going to look to everyone. A blurry hallway, a door, and then—her. Kate. Nothing like the poised, curated women from my past. She’s got neon green paint on her chest, for crying out loud. Her hair’s half-out of its ponytail.
She’s not going to take this well.
She’s really not going to take this well.
I glance at the photo again. It's harmless, technically. But I know better. It looks like something. Something I didn’t mean for it to look like.
I should probably delete it, but it would spark more rumors.
“Um, Coach Mike?” a tiny voice says behind me. I whirl to see Justin, one of the kids, tugging at my pants.
“Yeah, buddy?” I crouch down to look at him.
“I’m nervous for the Little League,” he says. He looks down, as if he’s embarrassed to admit it. He fumbles with the hem of his shirt as he adds, “I don’t know how to dribble.”
I sigh and lower my voice. “You know what? When I was your age, I didn’t either.”
Justin’s face lights up, eager to hear more. “Really?”
“Yeah!” I say. “My first coach said I looked silly trying to play basketball and pat my head at the same time.”
I demonstrate it by dribbling an imaginary ball while patting my head. Justin giggles. “When did you get good?”
“I don’t remember. I just didn’t think about it. It doesn’t matter if you’re the best or if you look silly sometimes. Basketball’s supposed to be fun. You play, you laugh, you try again. That’s how you get better without even noticing.”
Justin nods, grinning so hard his ears practically wiggle. I ruffle his hair. “If the ball bounces off me, it’s okay?” he asks.
“Of course. We’ll run after it together.”
He gives me a fist bump and runs back to his chair, just as everyone starts to wake up from nap time.
I stand, brushing off my knees, and glance across the room. My eyes make contact with Kate’s. She’s watching with arms folded and gaze intense.
The second I catch her, she snaps her gaze away and pretends to be busy wiping the paint off her.
And that makes me grin, too.