CHAPTER NINETEEN
Michael
Eleven minutes later, I hear the doorbell.
“I was expecting you through the back,” I say, as I open the door for Kate. She’s now wearing pajamas beneath her oversized shirt. Her face is free from the green gunk, and her hair is all over the place.
“And risk Polly seeing there’s a secret gate to another house? No, thank you,” she says, removing her shoes to enter the house.
“See, that’s the kind of thing I can’t think of,” I say as she walks in. She tosses her small bag on the couch and surveys the living room.
She eyes the stack of coloring books, juice boxes, and a half-inflated air mattress in the corner. “This is... not the worst setup I’ve ever seen. You might actually survive the night.”
Just then, a thump echoes from the upstairs bedroom, followed by Polly’s voice yelling, “I’M NOT TIRED.”
Kate chuckles. She’s still looking around, then she moves around with a relaxed familiarity.
Like she actually lives here. She straightens the cushion, picks up a crayon from under the table, and takes a seat.
Without taking my eyes off her, I raise my voice toward the stairs. “Hey Pol! Guess who’s here!”
Immediately, I hear her little feet rushing down the stairs. She squeals. “MISS KATE!” she says. “You’re here!” And then she runs toward Kate and bangs into her as they both stumble back into the sofa.
“Hey there!” Kate says, wrapping her arms around Polly. “Looks like you tired out your uncle, Polly.” She looks at me as she chuckles, and I press my lips to a smile.
Polly laughs. “He couldn’t keep up! But he got me burgers for dinner, and ice cream too!”
“Ice cream before bed? That’s brave,” Kate says.
“He also said we should watch Frozen, but he doesn’t even know the words!” She rolls her eyes.
“We’ll watch it later,” Kate says. “But what do you want to do for now?”
Polly barely pauses. “Princess dress-up!” Then she frowns, the tragedy of her life suddenly dawning upon her. “But… I didn’t bring my princess dresses. And you don’t have them!”
Kate feigns deep thought, tapping her chin. “Hmm. You’re right. No princess dresses here… but what about a different kind of dress-up?”
Polly perks up instantly. “Like what?”
“Like… basketball athlete dress-up.” She says it with so much enthusiasm that even I want to be part of it, even when I don’t know what she’s talking about.
Polly gasps, delighted. “YES! Tito Wowski has lots of those clothes! His closet is full of jerseys and shoes and that one towel he always wears on his shoulder like a cape!”
Kate stands up and pats my arm. “You heard her. Go get the gear, Coach.”
I raise a brow at her, but I don’t argue. As I start up the stairs, I hear Polly call out proudly, “I’m gonna be Michael Lee! Captain of the national basketball team and ice cream hero!” I chuckle, and walk a little faster.
In my room, I open the closet and start pulling out a few older jerseys—some from past seasons, a couple of training shirts, and one that still has a stain from an energy drink explosion during a team flight. I toss them over my arm.
When I get back downstairs, Polly is already standing on the couch like it’s a stage. She’s holding an imaginary microphone, narrating her own highlight reel: “And now… Michael Lee enters the court! The crowd goes wild!”
I smile because Polly’s always front and center during my games. Even my teammates know her. She always cheers, shouts, and copies the announcer, exactly like the way she did just now.
Kate’s on the floor, trying to contain her laughter while tying her hair. “Your fan base is growing,” she tells me as I drop the pile on the couch.
“I aim to inspire,” I say dryly.
Polly dives into the jerseys like they’re treasure, holding one up to her tiny frame. “Did this jersey win?” she asks.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “That one was from the FIBA Games,” I say, flopping into the armchair. “Gold medal game.”
Polly beams and immediately puts it on. It swallows her, naturally, and she struts around the living room saying, “No further questions, please.” She looks at me and adds, “That’s what you always say!”
Kate lies back on the carpet, hands over her stomach, tears in her eyes from laughing. “This might be the best sleepover ever.”
I glance between the two of them—Polly parading in one of the most important jerseys I’ve ever worn, Kate doubled over with laughter on my living room floor—and feel something shift inside my chest. Something small, something warm. Something I never felt before.
“Miss Kate! Choose a jersey! You’re my teammate.”
Kate’s eyes grow wide, but she just chuckles, and says, “Sure, Pol, hand me one!”
Without hesitation, Polly tosses her one—of course, that one. The final jersey from my most recent win. The one with the fresh lettering and the still-crisp hem. Kate catches it mid-air and slips it on, adjusting it like a dress. It nearly reaches her knees. She looks up at me, a smirk forming.
“You say anything, and I walk.”
“I said nothing,” I manage, though I’m grinning.
Polly hops between us like a sugar-powered sports announcer. “Okay! Team meeting! Coach Kate, what’s our game plan?”
Kate bends down, conspiratorial. “Okay. Step one: We stretch. Step two: We run…”
“Step three,” Polly adds, “We ambush Tito Wowski with pillows.” They seal their huddle with a “Go, Team!”
They begin “stretching” on the living room floor, which is mostly just exaggerated toe touches. Polly throws me a jersey, grinning widely. “You too, Tito Wowski.”
I sigh with mock defeat and slip the jersey over my head.
It takes all of five minutes before the room erupts into chaos.
Polly leads the charge with a decorative throw pillow as her weapon of choice.
Kate follows close behind, laughing breathlessly, using the couch cushions as cover.
I dodge left, then right, trying to shield myself with one of the larger ones—only to be pelted square in the chest by a rogue cushion from Polly.
“Direct hit!” she screams, triumphant.
I stumble backward dramatically, landing on the beanbag like I’ve been taken out by a sniper.
And then, for a heartbeat, I just lie there.
Breathing. Smiling. Watching them.
Kate throws her head back laughing, her hair a mess, jersey askew. Polly flops beside me, still giggling, cheeks pink and glowing. And for a brief, silent second, the room is just full of warmth. And laughter. And happiness.
I wish I could bottle this. Freeze it. Stretch it out longer than it’s meant to last.
Because for someone who’s spent most of his adult life in transit—on team buses, in airport lounges, in locker rooms that all blur together, this feels like a special moment.
And I know I’ve dreaded ever coming here in the first place, but suddenly, the idea of going back to the usual rhythm—of waking up in silence, of training alone, of eating alone while watching from my phone—feels heavier than it did just hours ago.
We decide to end the night with Frozen, because that’s Polly’s decree.
The three of us pile into the pillow fort—a structurally questionable but spiritually sound construction of blankets, couch cushions, and exactly one flashlight clipped to the inside like a budget chandelier.
Polly takes the center, naturally, with a bowl of popcorn in her lap and her stuffed dog Waffles clutched in one hand.
Fifteen minutes in, I hear the first soft snore.
I glance to my left.
Polly, mouth open, out cold.
Her head has fallen against Kate’s shoulder, one hand still loosely tangled in Kate’s shirt. A kernel of popcorn is stuck to her cheek. She looks like a very small general who’s fought a long, victorious battle and passed out on the battlefield.
Not only that, but as I glance at Kate, she’s also asleep.
From this angle I can see her long eyelashes, and the way they curl naturally, like her hair.
She’s not exactly snoring, but there’s a rhythmic sound to her breathing.
There’s a softness in her face I rarely get to see.
No teasing smile. No quick retort ready to be fired. Just… quiet.
Peaceful.
It does something to me. Twists something in my chest again.
And I can’t help but think that for the first time in my life, I start to consider that maybe my life outside of basketball shouldn’t have to be something as grand.
Maybe it’s just something as grounding as having my own family.
A wife, a kid, people to go home to when the world is loud.
And oddly enough, when I allow myself to envision that reality, it looks a lot like this.
Eventually, I start to move—careful not to wake either of them—as I shift out from under the blanket roof. I grab a blanket off the back of the couch and crawl back just far enough to drape it over them both.
Kate stirs slightly, instinctively tucking the fabric closer around Polly, her hand resting protectively over Pol’s arm.
I watch for just a beat longer.
Then I let them be.
Because if I know anything, it’s that moments like this don’t happen often—and when they do, you don’t rush them. You just sit with them and hope like hell you don’t screw it up later.
It’s five in the morning when my eyes snap open.
Years of early training sessions have wired my body like an alarm clock that doesn’t believe in weekends or holidays.
For a second, I’m disoriented. The faint blue light of dawn spills through the window, painting soft shadows across the living room.
I blink and sit up slowly, the couch groaning beneath me. My back does too.
Then I remember: the pillow fort. The popcorn. Frozen.
Polly.
Kate.
I glance toward the middle of the room, heart catching for reasons I don’t fully understand yet.
They’re still there—curled up together on the floor mattress like two pieces of a puzzle that naturally found each other.
The blanket has slipped halfway down, and the glow from the TV screen casts them in an odd, flickering light.
The movie has long ended, replaced now by that low, looping ‘Are you still watching?’ prompt.
They’re both still wearing my jerseys, hilariously oversized.
Polly’s tiny arms are completely swallowed by the sleeves, and Kate’s shoulder is peeking out where the jersey has slipped a little.
Somehow, at some point during the night, they shifted until they were lying side by side, tangled in the kind of comfortable sleep that only happens when you trust the person beside you.
Polly’s face is buried against Kate’s chest, her tiny fingers still clutching a handful of fabric.
And Kate’s arm is looped protectively around her, anchoring them both in sleep.
And I’m just standing here in the doorway, like some stunned intruder in my own home, staring at two people who feel like they belong here more than I do.
I glance away before I get too far ahead of myself.
Still, I grab my phone from the counter and quietly snap a photo—not to post or share, but just to keep. A moment to hold onto for later, when things go back to whatever version of normal this was before.
Then I pad quietly to the kitchen, determined to make some coffee. Maybe pancakes too—if I can figure out whether I even own flour. But I haven’t even stepped foot in a grocery, let alone ordered some flour. So I quietly slip out of my house to go to the Corner Bistro.
Mornings in Magnolia Heights are never truly quiet.
Even on a weekend. Especially on a weekend.
It’s that specific brand of neighborhood noise.
Pots clanging. Tricycles sputtering to life.
Roosters screaming. Old 80s music blasting from someone’s house speakers.
Somewhere down the street, someone is selling pandesal, and another yells “Taho!” Dogs bark in chorus.
I pass the same row of houses I’ve started recognizing by their front steps: the house with the flamingo lawn ornament, the one with three wind chimes, the one that always smells like garlic. This place is a sensory map.
The Corner Bistro’s sign hasn’t even fully turned to ‘Open’ yet when I arrive, but I step in anyway, hoping to be the first customer. The door creaks softly, and inside, the lights are already warm and inviting. It’s small inside, with booths on one end and tables on the other.
Somehow, Haley is already there, hunched over a plate of longganisa with half a pandesal in her mouth. So much for ‘first customer.’
“Good morning,” I say, already amused. “I thought this place opens at six?”
“It does,” she says, not even looking up. “But I told Irene I was in the middle of a spiritual crisis and needed pork. Stat.”
“I thought it was an artistic crisis?” Irene emerges from the back, tying her apron. She looks to be about middle age, like the rest of the ladies who hangout at night playing Bingo or some card game.
“Same thing.” Haley shrugs.
“So, what brings you here before opening hour, Mr. MVP?” Irene asks with her brows raised. “I was under the impression you have your meals prepped for you.”
“Well, my meals are… But…” I stammer.
“Save it, Mike,” Haley says without looking up. “He’ll get a breakfast special number three. And maybe pancakes for the kid.”
Irene looks at me, and I just nod.
“Alright, dear, ten minutes.” Then she disappears to the back. I take a seat across from Haley. The sun is rising outside, casting long beams across the room.
Haley looks up at me, finally. “How’s domestic bliss?” She smiles.
I chuckle. “That’s not…”
“Okay, listen,” she says, setting her fork down. “Just don’t mess with her.”
“What?” I didn’t expect that.
“Kate doesn’t do casual or complicated. She wants the boring, quiet life. And you don’t look like… that.”
I freeze.
“Sorry, just… I know she told you she’s never been in love before…and if you see that as some sort of challenge or a fun thing to do while you’re here, don’t confuse her.”
Before I can respond, Irene slides two takeout bags on the counter. “Ready!” she exclaims. I stand and collect the bags, thanking Irene.
I look at Haley and her surprisingly terrifying stare. “I won’t,” I say. She doesn’t smile. She just nods and returns to her breakfast.
As I welcome the morning sun when I step out of the shop, I realize something: I don’t think Kate is the one who should be worried about being confused here. I think that’s me.