CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Michael
Iwas going to tell her that I love her. I was going to tell her that I’m ready to figure out ways to make this work. I’d even join less leagues for her. I’d step down as captain. I’d find something else I could do. Anything.
But I don’t want her to feel pressured by having to keep up with me, or just saying yes to say yes, like she always does.
I don’t want me to be the one that makes her want to step out into a backyard and retreat in solitude.
I want to be the one she goes to. The one she runs toward so she can rest from being too polite to everyone else.
But I also know I can’t ask her to rearrange her life to fit into mine.
Not when I don’t even know what my life looks like right now. What it will look like in the future.
I sit on the bleachers of the gym, waiting for my teammates to arrive.
The air smells like sweat and resin, that familiar, oddly comforting scent of rubber.
It looks the same—same court, same lights, same fading paint on the walls—but I feel different.
Off. Like I’ve grown two inches taller and don’t fit here the way I used to.
It’s been four months since I’ve been here.
Four months off the court. And for someone who used to play every single day, that’s practically a lifetime.
I thought I would dread it. I thought I’d count the minutes until I could lace my shoes up again, feel the rubber of the ball, the squeak of the soles, the thrill of a perfect shot.
But I didn’t.
Instead, that one fear I used to carry—the fear that I wasn’t anyone without basketball—started to dissolve. And in its place was this… weird, unexpected kind of hope. Like maybe I could be something more. Someone more.
There’s something about Magnolia Heights that does that to you. Maybe it’s the slower pace. The people who care less about your status and more about your ability to reach things on a tall shelf.
I think of the kids I got to teach over the past few months.
The chaos of arts-and-crafts mornings, the sticky fingers, the laughter when I accidentally glued googly eyes to my pants.
And then the afternoons, when I showed them how to dribble.
Just simple drills. But they loved it. And I loved seeing them light up.
Some of them were naturals. Some just wanted to bounce the ball as high as they could and run.
But all of them were discovering something—and I got to be a part of that.
It was the first time I felt like I was contributing to the game without playing it.
Maybe I could start something. A program. A camp. A workshop. About what it means to be an athlete and something else. I’ll be the guide I never had.
Maybe I can run it with Kate. The thought comes out of nowhere, but I can already see it: her organizing sign-up sheets, making name tags, making the kids laugh. Me handling the drills, showing them how to pivot and pass. Us baking the snacks the night before.
I sigh. I already miss her. Technically, I’m still going back there, but I already feel her drifting away from me. Because I can’t see a future where both our dreams come true. One where she lives the quiet life and I discover myself with her by my side.
And if someone’s dream has to be compromised… I’d rather it be mine.
I’d rather she stay in the town she loves.
I’d rather she open her bakery and teach preschoolers and live the life she’s imagined—quiet, rooted, honest. I’d rather she find someone who doesn’t have a calendar that changes with every tournament.
Someone who doesn’t have to explain why his schedule is always ‘tentative.’ Someone who shows up. Every day.
But still—selfishly, hopefully—I wonder if maybe I could be that guy. Someday. Maybe, one day, when I’ve built something more than a stat sheet or a comeback story, I’ll be worthy of the kind of life she wants.
Not the version I am now. But the one I’m still becoming. The one who knows how to rest. The one who knows how to stay.
Just as I’m thinking about how much I want to call her again—to hear her voice, even if it’s just to talk about nothing at all—the gym doors creak open.
My teammates start shuffling in, bags slung over shoulders, earbuds in, the usual nods and greetings.
Some are rookies I don’t recognize—young guys who used to be on rival school teams, now pulled into the national roster.
Others are familiar, ones I’ve played with off-season.
Some I’ve gone toe-to-toe with in championship games.
And now we’re all here. In the national team that I’m heading.
“Hey, Cap!” one of the guys says.
“It’s really you,” a rookie approaches.
Coach shuffles in just after them, and says, “Rule number one, be on time. See that?” He points to me. “Michael’s always early. Always.” The others quickly drop their bags and stand in the middle of the gym.
Coach approaches me and gives me a fist bump. “Glad to have you back, Mike.”
We run drills. Shooting. Passing. Defense. The basics. Stuff I could do with my eyes closed. But today? Everything’s just... slightly off. I miss a free throw. Then another.
One of the rookies blinks at me. “You good, Cap?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just a bit shaken.”
Coach blows his whistle. “Let’s go again, same drill.”
The others fall in line. I do too. Muscle memory kicks in, but the rhythm’s not quite there. It’s like I’m thinking three seconds too late. Like my body’s in the gym, but my heart’s pacing outside with Kate, back in Magnolia Heights.
We switch to a scrimmage. I move better when there’s contact—when I can pivot and push.
It’s easier to play when you’re not alone with your thoughts.
For two quarters, I get my groove back. I even make a couple of solid passes, nail a three, block a drive.
I also dunk a little too hard, and someone yells, “There’s the old Michael!
” while another shouts, “The prodigy himself!”
But I don’t feel like the old Michael. Not at all.
Old Michael only thought about the next game, the next win, the next stat line. This Michael keeps wondering if Kate’s eaten, if she’s tired, if she’s finally told someone no today.
Coach pulls us aside halfway through. “Good intensity,” he says. ”Mike, that was good, but we both know you can do better than that.”
I chuckle under my breath. He’s always been tough with me, and it always works. Because, when I play well, I get this validation. And I used to be the textbook example of a self-absorbed athlete so validation was my bread and butter.
When practice ends, rookies come up to me to give me a pat on the back. Some asked for photos. Chris approaches me and says, “You’re terrible today.”
“Thanks for the warm welcome, buddy,” I say with a chuckle.
“No, seriously. You’re distracted.” He walks with me as we step into the locker room. “Comeback game’s in a week.”
“I know, I know.” I smile. “Just a bit rusty. I’ll practice more,” I say. “Besides, it’s not a legit tournament. It’s a friendly comeback game.”
Chris gives me a pointed look. “Yes, that’s organized for you. Imagine playing terribly on a game set up solely for you.”
“Thanks for the pressure,” I mutter, though I’m smiling as I say it.
“Anytime.” He throws me a towel. “Just get your head right.”
He disappears into the showers, and I’m left alone in front of my locker. I peel off my jersey and continue to the showers too.
When I’m done, I leave the gym. But I don’t head straight home to watch game replays or analyze my form. I walk to the park near the arena instead. I sit on a bench. I watch people pass—kids with their parents, a couple walking a dog, teenagers playing streetball.
And I let myself just… be. No pressure of who I am. Just a man figuring out what else he can be.
And maybe that’s the most important game I’ve ever played.