Page 73 of Bring You Back

He retrieves the ball and stares down at it, tension all over his face and in his arms. He dribbles, once. Twice. A third time, like he can jolt an answer out of it. “I don’t know.”

Tommy’s been playing basketball since middle school. He was one of the best on the team, if notthebest. He was recruited by a coach from Blareton University for a full ride. It was the best day of his life. Out of all of us, he’s always been the one who’s serious about going to college. But means weren’t always available, funds weren’t always there—most of his parents’ money going toward their house—and he didn’t want his future graduation to be tainted with debt. That’s where basketball came in. He was already playing his ass off, so he played his ass off even more until it finally paid off. He has the talent and the passion.Hadthe passion?

“What’s going on, man?”

He joins me on the brick, rolling the ball under his foot. “I have a scholarship to Blareton for a sport I don’t think I wanna play anymore. That’s what’s going on.” He kicks the ball and it rolls across the driveway, coming to a stop in the grass.

“That’s not good,” I say through a breath.

He laughs out loud. “Bad enough to make me lose everything.”

“You won’t loseeverything,” I say in disbelief.

“I literally can’t afford to not play ball,” he argues. “If I don’t play, I’m out. Everything I’ve worked for is gone. My future is done.” He’s already defeated, as if his scholarship has been pulled before he even sets foot on the court.

I almost tell him if worse comes to worst, he’ll find a different future. He’ll make it work. And he would. But I know what’s it’s like to just see one future. This town is mine. And I don’t question it. If I did, I’d end up sidelined, looking into a future I once saw as a sure thing with question marks in my eyes and a simmering resentment in my fists—like this guy. Tommy’s staring at that ball like he’s trying to burn a hole through it, his hands fisted at his sides.

“You’re just burnt out,” I say with a light elbow to his arm. “Give it a rest.”

“I don’t have time to ‘give it a rest’,” he snaps back, then dials back. “Sorry. This is why I haven’t talked about it.”

“It’s fine, man,” I say, giving him room to talk more, because I know he needs to.

“This can’t happen to me,” he says with a shake of his head. His eyes are still boring into the ball, but his hands have relaxed. “If I’m feeling like this now, can youimaginehow I’ll feel playing at the college level? College ball is a full time job. My head can’tnotbe in it.” Lower, he says, “I don’t know who I am without this.”

“How long has this been going on?”

He shifts his stare from the ball to the net. “Since spring.”

I let out another whistle. Months he’s been dealing with this, holding this in. The struggle with my own sport feels inconsequential in comparison. I haven’t lost my love of surfing. I’ve just been having a shitty few days. He’s been having a shitty fewmonths.

But then I tell myself it’s just months. Recent months. He still has time to turn it around.

“Don’t worry too much,” I tell him. “You’ll get it back.”

“Yeah,” he says like it’s obvious, and yet not that easy. “Ihaveto. So. I’m working on it.”

“Have you told your parents?”

“No,” he says with a face. “You know how they’d be. They don’t have to know until there’s something to know. I need to work on this myself.” He gives me a pointed stare. “Because it’s just a funk. Right?”

I nod with a slight laugh. “Right.”

He blows out a breath, eyes back on the ball. “Right.” He springs forward, jogs across the driveway, and yanks up the ball. He whips around and throws. The ball hits the rim, then falls in the net.

“Have you ever missed a shot?” I think back to his games, to the times we’d play one-on-one right here, and all I see is score after score.

“Sure,” he says, retrieving the ball. “When I’m lazy.” He tosses the ball overhead with a weak hand, and it skids along the backboard to land in the grass. I laugh as he retrieves it, dribbles, shoots, and scores.

He bounces the ball back to his hands and squeezes, the tension in his arms matching the tension in his voice. “Why’d it have to be Reyna?”

I’ve gone over many times in my head why I needed Reyna. Why I still need her. And while she is part of the conversation I came here to have with Tommy, I’d rather not rehash every single reason with him. He still wouldn’t understand no matter what I say. But Tommy is Tommy, so he’s still trying to, anyway.

I lop all of them into one answer. “I’m tired of being the only one who gives a shit.”

His eyes slide to mine, his stare unsatisfied and accusing. “So is she.”

I give a helpless shrug. “I don’t know what to do. I like her.” I release a light laugh, because of course I like her. “I like being with her.” My head tilts in doubt, thinking about how I’m happy one minute, then pissed off and needing an escape the next. I hear the regret in my voice when I say, “Until I don’t.”

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