CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Michael
“These taste terrible, Tito Wowski,” Polly declares with full conviction, frowning as she places the cookie back on the napkin. “They’re crunchy in the wrong places. Nothing like Miss Kate’s.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”
She nods solemnly. “Like burnt cheese. But there’s no cheese.”
Fair. They’re inedible. Batch number four, same result. I even bought new measuring cups this time.
I snap a photo of the tray—uneven circles, edges blackened like regret—and text it to Kate.
Me: Burnt my fourth batch. Pretty sure you rigged this recipe. Polly’s traumatized.
Her reply comes a few minutes later, a beat longer than usual. She sends me a photo of her perfect cookies.
Katie: It's the thought that counts, right?
Michael (Me): That's what people say when the result is unspeakable
She reacts with a laugh emoji, but doesn’t respond for a while, so I start cleaning up the trays. My phone buzzes, and I see her text.
Katie: BTW, I'm going to your game. With Dan.
Katie: Just as friends! Also, we'll be in the upper box so you won't really see. Just wanna say good luck!
There’s a faint ringing in my ears. Dan.
The single dad with the polite voice. The rational option.
The one with the kid in Kate’s class. Safe.
Settled. Already part of her world. Already good with kids.
Already everything I’m not. For a second, I hate him.
He hasn’t done anything wrong, but he fits where I don’t.
I can picture her life with him too easily.
I try to reply as kindly as my stupid heart allows me.
Michael: No way are you gonna sit in the upper box. Upgrading you to VIP. Bring everyone.
I actually hope she brings everyone. All her friends.
The whole neighborhood. A wall of people with her and Dan so it really won’t be a date.
I picture her laughing with them in the stands, leaning over to share inside jokes, her eyes bright in the stadium lights.
In that version, Dan is just… background noise. A name on the guest list. A footnote.
I pretend that’s why I’m doing it. Because I’m generous. Because I want her to have the best view, the best night, the best version of the game.
But the truth is uglier and simpler. I’m still human. Still jealous. Still in love with Katie in that sharp, unshakable way that makes you a little bit selfish and a little bit petty.
Katie: You don't have to...
Katie: But thanks. Richard would flip out. And... I'm proud of you. Good luck, champ.
Michael (Me): Thanks, Miss Noodles. See you there :)
I stare at her name on the screen long after the conversation ends. I tell myself I’m glad she’s coming. That I’m grateful. That it’s enough just to see her from the court. Maybe it would inspire me. Or distract me. Whatever.
Trish helps me clean up. In the city, I live in a 3-bedroom condo with the view of the city.
I asked them to stay here until the Comeback game.
I didn’t wanna be alone. And the person I really wanna be with can’t be here too.
So her, Polly, and her husband Peter are staying over for a few more days.
“You okay?” Trish asks as she catches me staring at the wall again.
“Yeah, just… big game, that’s all.”
“Michael. You’ve played in three SEA Games. This isn’t game nerves.” She’s right.
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” I start. “About how long I’ve been… closed off. Even before the scandal.”
Trish stops wiping the cutlery. “I’ve been waiting for this conversation.” She takes a wine glass and pours herself a drink. “Please, continue.”
I chuckle, but I sit on the counter with her.
“Ever since I remember, I’ve been so focused on being useful.
When we lived with grandma and both of you were doing everything to help us survive, I thought I couldn’t just sit around and wait.
So I looked for ways to be useful. Until useful turned to strong.
And being strong turned to being unshakeable. ”
She takes a sip of wine but doesn’t interrupt.
“I thought if I was excellent, I wouldn’t need anything else. And every time the thought of wanting something more comes into mind, I push it away because I thought it was selfish and ungrateful.”
Trish puts her wine glass down.
I let out a breath and lean forward. “But then one of the assistant coaches got married. And during his wedding speech, he said something like, ‘I can’t let my whole life revolve around the court anymore.’ And I laughed at the time. But it stuck.”
My voice cracks a little. “It was the first time I let myself ask… what would my life look like without basketball? And I couldn’t answer. I had nothing.”
She lets out a breath. “That’s a heavy thing to realize.”
“I didn’t even let myself feel how scary it was. I just buried it under more drills, more hours at the gym, more silence. Then that ref pushed the wrong button, and everything I’d been avoiding finally exploded.”
Trish nods. “And then…” I start, already knowing what she’ll say.
“And then you met her,” she finishes for me.
I nod, throat tight. “Kate.”
Trish gives me a half-smile, soft and knowing. “You softened, Mike.”
I look down at my hands. “She made me feel like I could want things again. Not awards. Not headlines. Just... dinner with someone who listens. A warm kitchen. Mornings where I’m not sprinting toward something just to feel worthy.”
“Did you tell her that?”
I shake my head. “No. Not that, exactly. I told her I like her, though.”
“Michael.”
“I know.”
She exhales, like she’s disappointed but chooses not to talk about it.
“I wanted to tell her more,” I continue. “But then I saw how much she’s always bent herself to make room for other people, and I don’t want to be that guy for her. If I tell her I love her, she’s gonna double that love, and I’m going to be unworthy of it.
“I kept telling myself I was protecting her by maintaining a distance,” I say. “That she deserved better than a guy still rebuilding his life. And now she’s going to my game with someone else.”
“Did she say it was a date?”
“No,” I admit. “She said it was just a friend. Said she was proud of me, and she wished me luck.”
Trish lets out a soft breath. “And how did that feel?”
“Like a door closing. Slowly. Kindly. But still closing.”
I force a laugh, dry and sharp at the edges. “She’s gentle in ways I didn’t think existed anymore. But she’s not just soft—she bites when she has to. I was probably the only person she was ever mean to. And I think it’s because she trusted me with her sharp edges.”
I blink hard. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to filter herself around me. She deserves to be all of who she is—soft, stubborn, scared, strong. If I can’t hold that without asking her to shrink, then I don’t deserve her.”
I try to smile, but it cracks at the edges. “I guess I’ll just… be happy for her. If someday I see her with someone who treats her well, then that should be enough for me.”
Trish slides off her stool and walks over to me. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds on like she’s still my big sister and I’m still that quiet, serious boy with the weight of the world in his backpack.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says. “Even when this is the first time you’ve ever loved someone, you already know something people spend years trying to learn: that love isn’t transactional.
It’s not a deal or a prize or a return on investment.
It’s just… love. And the fact that you can hold that feeling—fully, honestly—without expecting anything in return?
That means it’s real. That means you’re loving her the right way. ”
I nod, pressing my forehead to her shoulder. She pulls back, just enough to meet my eyes. “But Mike,” she says, her voice steady as she puts her wineglass in the sink. “It’s not too late to tell her again.”
The apartment goes quiet once Trish heads to the room with Polly and Peter. I’m left with the hum of the fridge and the sound of my own heart, loud in my chest.
I sit back on the couch, lights dimmed, the skyline blinking outside my window. From here, I can see the city I’ve tried to conquer for so long. Now all I want is something smaller. Softer.
Soon, she’ll be in the stands. And I’ll be on the court. And I have no idea what I’ll do when I see her.
Will I freeze?
Will I fall apart?
Will I finally find the courage to say what I’ve been holding inside me for weeks now—that I love her?
I don’t know.
I’ve faced sold-out stadiums. Reporters.
Coaches. Every kind of pressure. But none of it has ever scared me the way she does.
Not because she might hurt me—but because she might not.
Because she might believe me. Because if I say it and she says it back, then that means I have to live up to it. I have to be the person she sees in me.
I’ll walk into that arena like I’ve done a hundred times before. Maybe I’ll give the crowd the performance they’re hoping for. But this time, I won’t be playing for them.
This time, I’ll be looking for one face in the crowd.
And if I find the courage—if I find her eyes, and they don’t turn away—then maybe I’ll finally say the words.
Not because I want anything in return.
But because she deserves to hear them.