Page 113 of The Pass Protection
Jamming my finger in the ignition, the truck fires to life as I tear out of the parking lot. It’s been seventeen days since I’ve seen her. Seventeen days after being around her vibrant soul for one hundred and three days. Yes, I’ve counted the days I was fortunate enough to see her smile and those where darkness has surrounded me.
My chest is on fire as I drive the few minutes from the football facility to the rec center. I can’t lose her. Not without fighting for her. But I’ll let her go if she’s truly ready to end things. She deserves to be happy, even if that means without me.
Mom always told us that if you love something, set it free, and if it comes back, then it was meant to be. I’ve always hated hearing that expression because it never felt soothing. Why would I want to set something free I loved?
I’m in a daze as I make my way through the quiet recreation center. Winter break has the campus feeling eerily vacant, as almost everyone has gone home for the four-week hiatus. A ball of anxiety clogs my lungs, and fire spreads through my body from the nerves of approaching Bret. She feels like a wounded animal who will either lash out or run in fear.
The sound of the dribbling basketball feels like the beat of my heart. Each thump beats against my ribs as dread drops into the endless pit of doom. Uncertainty swirls around me as I step through the doorway. Isaid I’d let her decision be whatever it was, but first, she needs to hear me out. Then I’ll live with whatever choice she makes.
Bret is on the first court, dribbling with desperation as she pulls up for a jump shot. Following her shot, she races to the net, where she grabs the ball and dribbles with force to the opposite side of the key. She repeats the motion, never missing a shot. Her raw athleticism shines through with every dribble, every move, every shot. I watch her muscles work as she pushes them to a new test every time she grabs the ball. Her body moves in fluid tranquility, but I can see the pent-up energy she’s forcing herself to release. It’s in the sharp lines of her shoulders that gives her away.
“You just going to stand there and watch, or do you want to play?” Her voice interrupts me from where I’m admiring her. She clutches the ball with a hand on her hip and waits for my answer. Stripping out of my sweatpants, I toss them to the side before reaching behind my head and pulling off my hoodie one-handed.
With a nod, Bret shoves the ball across the court to me. Catching it, I bounce it a few times from where I stand as I get a feel for the grip again. I played basketball throughout middle and high school, but it’s been years since I stepped onto a court. I’ve long since traded the round rubber ball for an oval pigskin.
Our eyes meet as I step onto the court, and a silent understanding passes through us. She needs this—an outlet to expunge her inner workings from inside her. The pain. The fear. The destruction.
Dribbling to the spot between half-court and the three-point line, I bounce the ball to her. Catching it between her hands, she holds it to her chest before firing the ball back to me.
“Use me.” The words leave my lips, deep and husky, while her eyes squint with confusion. “Take it out on me, Rebel. Work your shit out on me.Use.Me.”
Settling in her defensive stance, Bret squares up as she waits for me to make the first move. With the ball checked up, I jab to the right before driving to the left side. Her steps falter as surprise flicks across her determined face with my decision to go left when it’s my weaker side. Only in basketball, it’s my preferred side.
With each shuffle across the floor, Bret’s eyes shine with a tenacity and ferocious challenge, almost as if she was daring me. Pulling up outside of the key, I shoot the basketball and watch with surprise as it banks off the backboard and lands through the hoop. Bret’s wide-eyed gaze finds mine as she jogs to retrieve the ball.
That’s right, baby, I’m full of surprises too.
Bret jogs to the top of the court, her shoulders tight, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her pretty mind. Bouncing the ball to me, I feel the frustration in the zip of the pass. A tight set to her jaw has me fighting the grin, desperate to escape as competitiveness rushes through me. This game was different, though. It isn’t about the hustle of the gridiron but putting my heart on the line for her. I am here for her, willing to put my body through the wringer to prove I’m not going anywhere. The long run is here, and I’m sprinting to the finish with her by my side. No matter how hard she fights against me, I’m not backing down.
Determination seeps from her as she lowers her shoulder, driving into me as she moves toward the basket. Fumbling backward, I let her use me just as I instructed. Bret’s body is a blur as she vents her inner turmoil with each bump into me as I refuse to back down.
You’re going to need to try harder than that, Rebel.
If this is what she needs to feel alive and free, then I’ll welcome every bruise she gives me.
Her jaw clenches tight as she goes up for a layup. Stretching out as she brushes into me and drives her strong body through mine, myfingers graze the ball, blocking it. With a thud, it lands out of bounds. Frustration radiates off of her. Bret slams the ball with two hands to the ground, and she roars a curse as if the word was ripping through her chest.
The two of us continue our back-and-forth game. Sweat pours down our bodies as if we were dancing in the rain. Frustration bubbles inside her like a tea kettle about to boil over. Bret drives toward me again, and her dribbling intensifies with each push. With even more focus, resembling the defensive backs I’m used to blocking, Bret explodes with more force, grit, and tenacity.
What do you have inside you, Bret?
Refusing to push back, I absorb the hit and feel her electric charge pass through me, sending a charge across my limbs. This is what I wanted—for her to use me and allow me to be her outlet, her punching bag. This pickup game was neverjusta game; it was a battle, a war against her mind.
Her chest heaves as she spins and fights to create space between us.
I’m done giving you space, Rebel. If you want it, you’ve got to work for it.
As if she could read my mind, I see the storm roll over her eyes as the thundering sound of her heart fueled her to exert herself. I match her step for step as she dribbles around the lane before regrouping.
Standing up slightly from my defensive stance for the briefest second, Bret smirks as she takes advantage of my weak point. Her shoulder lowers as she drives through me and barrels down the lane. I’m hot on her tail as I work to make up the distance.
But I’m too late.
Powering off her right foot, Bret drives through her body, her pain fueling her momentum as she releases the ball with one hand. I watchfrom where my legs pause as the ball hits the top corner of the painted-on square and it lands perfectly through the orange hoop.
Swish.
The sound of the net makes Bret bend over as she rests her hands on her knees. Head hanging, chest heaving, the sound of her sobs breaking through the quiet gymnasium. Slowly, I approach her before dropping to my knees in front of her. Trailing a soft touch down her cheeks, I gather the moisture of falling tears.
