Page 47 of Dice & Dekes

“Hey, two things can be true at the same time.” She punches my arm and tucks the spare frame back into the pocket of her leggings. “You’ve bought dumber things for worse reasons.”

“True.” I nod meaningfully toward the bocce supplies. “Ready to get started?”

If she didn’t have Williams Syndrome, I’m pretty sure Ella would have been a dancer. She’s got the energy and enthusiasm for it, and once she’s focused on something, nothing breaks her concentration. Unfortunately, Ella has a whole host of cardiovascular problems that limit the type of exercise she can do safely, not to mention muscle and joint issues that make it all too easy to injure herself. I’ve read up on Williams Syndrome since meeting her, and I sometimes wonder about the other symptoms she’s never mentioned. The only reason she’s talked to me about her physical considerations is that, as her coach, I have to know her limits. I need to know when I’m pushing her to improve a technique and when I’m asking her to do something that could result in an injury.

Beyond that, unless Ella volunteers information, I don’t ask for more. In the nearly two years we’ve been working together, I’ve learned that Ella’s disabilities are the least interesting thing about her. She has a ton of hobbies, loves music, and volunteers with an exotic pet rescue. Why would I pester her for personal information when I could ask her how the cockatiel she hand-raised from a chick is doing?

I wonder sometimes what would happen if Knova met Ella. Would she roll her eyes? Call me soft? Or would she see me for who I really am when I’m not performing? I want her to know this version of me, too—the one who gives a damn without needing applause.

We train until I spot the early signs of fatigue in Ella’s posture. “I think I need a break,” she says.

“Let’s have some water,” I agree. “It’s a hot one.”

We sit down on the nearby bench and watch the rest of the bocce players and their coaches. While Ella checks her pulse, I pull out my phone to text Knova.

No1Viktor:Any idea what you’d like for lunch? I’ll be eating before I get back, but I can bring anything you like.

I hit send and watch as my message status changes to Delivered, and then Read. I wait for a bubble to pop up and indicate that she’s typing back. It doesn’t.

Not a ‘sure’ or a snarky ‘bring me meat.’ Nothing. It shouldn’t gut me the way it does. But it’s the silence that gets me. Because I used to be her emergency contact, and now I’m just another maybe.

“Who are you texting?” Ella asks. “Is it Knova?”

“Maybe.” I turn off my screen and set my phone face-down on my lap.

“Are you finally going to ask her to be your girlfriend?”

I glance sidelong at Ella. Sometimes her social skills are a little iffy, as she has a habit of saying what she’s thinking without knowing how her bluntness comes across. Based on her cheeky smile, I’m guessing that she knows she’s being nosy.

“None of your business.” I smile to let her know that I’m kidding. Mostly.

“Too bad. Missed opportunity.” She holds my gaze as she lifts her bottle to her lips and takes a long swig.

“What makes you think she’s not already my girlfriend?”

“She wasn’t your girlfriend last time,” Ella points out.

“Touche, young padawan.” I check my phone again. I’m still on read. “But things can change.”

A spasm of worry crosses Ella’s features. “If they do change, you’re not going to stop volunteering, are you?”

“No way.” I scoff. “Knova would be cool with this. She’d understand.”

“You haven’t told her,” Ella observes. “Hm.”

That tiny noise carries a punch. She doesn’t mean anything by it, but it makes me feel like a liar. Like I’m hiding parts of myself because I’m afraid Knova won’t understand. And maybe I am.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She re-caps her water. “I’m ready to keep going.”

I know this isn’t a big deal. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’ll explain what I’m doing before the next coaching session. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but Knova seems so suspicious of anything I do that’s “too nice.” Like I’m trying to trick her into something. I’m not sure how to explain my volunteer work without making it sound like a weird flex.See how nice I am? I volunteer for the Special Olympics. You should totally stay married to me and, ideally, have sex with me again.

And again and again and again.

God, how pathetic would that be? Turning something sacred into a pitch for her affection. I don’t want to be that guy. I want her to love me for who I am—quiet kindness included.

Yuck.

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