Page 10 of Between Love and War
“Well, you do have psychopathic tendencies–” she cuts me off.
“I meant Katie. It’s just Kate,” she says with a smile.
“Okay, Katie. See you tomorrow.”
She shoots me a look before stomping toward the gap in the fence. I stay at the window, leaning on the sill, and watch her muttering to herself as she disappears from view.
I close my windows, my curtains, and my light. I can almost feel her plotting her revenge.
I sink back onto my bed and start scrolling through my phone. I usually keep my notifications off since my social media is always flooded with comments, and I learned a long time ago that reading them is never a good idea. But curiosity wins out today, and the moment I swipe down, the screen fills with a familiar mix of opinions.
It used to be different. The usual sea of praise, fire and heart emojis, and ‘GOAT’ comments have been drowned out by backlash. There are still fans defending me, insisting I was misunderstood, that the ref provoked me. I wish they wouldn’t. I don’t need anyone making excuses on my behalf. I did what I did because, at that moment, I believed it was the right thing to do. I shoved him. I meant to.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the coffee table, leaning back against the couch. I know I should stop checking. It’s not like any of this is new to me. I’ve always been seen as the guy who doesn’t let things get to him. Once, after losing a championship game, a reporter asked if I was upset. My response? A shrug and a smirk. It made headlines. ‘Michael Lee Doesn’t Care About Losing.’ They ate that narrative up. Soon after that, people just accepted that I’m more detached than my teammates. They made memes, merch, statement shirts, and even fanfiction.
People have always had opinions about me—how I play, how I talk, how I act like I don’t care. And maybe they’re right. Maybe Idon’tcare. Or maybe I just got tired of pretending that I do.
I was three when my parents died. Too young to remember them, too old for people to forget that I should. Tricia and I stayed in Seoul for a while with ourhalmeoni, our other grandma. But she died shortly after my parents did, so we were brought to Lola Gina, our only living relative here in the Philippines. And growing up, I learned quickly that grief made people uncomfortable. If I was too quiet, too sad, adults gave me pitying looks. If I acted out, they told me to be grateful for my sister, the family I had left. So I figured out the easiest way to make it through was to act like it didn’t bother me.
By the time I got to basketball, I already embodied that attitude. When I played well, they called me unshakable. When I played badly, they called me arrogant. When I didn’t react the way they wanted, they called me cold.
I could never win, so I stopped trying to.
But this time, it’s weirdly different. It isn’t about a bad game or a missed shot. It’s not even about me getting into a fight on the court. This is about my career, my reputation, my future. And unfortunately, I care a lot now.
“I can’t even use my car?” I put the phone on speaker and place it on the table as I put a shirt over my head.
“You mean, your ultra attention-grabbing, obnoxiously noisy sports car? Obviously,” Heather replies.
I sigh. It’s not like I bought the damn car to show off. I just like cars—customizing them, tweaking their performance, making them stand out. It’s a perfectly wholesome hobby, butfor some reason, people always assume I’m just trying to be flashy.
“Fine. Can I get a rental? Something subtle?”
“No. The last thing we need is someone spotting you at a rental agency and turning it into a ‘Michael Lee Broke?’ headline. Use the tricycles. They’re everywhere.”
I make a face. Technically, the schooliswithin the village, and I could probably just jog there if I really wanted to. But that would mean arriving sweaty and gross, and let’s be honest, that’s not happening.
“Or,” Heather continues, a devious tone in her voice, “you could hitch a ride with your neighbor. That teacher you need to be chummy with if you want that glowing recommendation.”
I freeze mid-motion, my fingers pausing on my watch strap. “What?” I take the phone from between my ear and my shoulder.
“You heard me.” There’s a pause, then the unmistakable sound of her clicking away on her keyboard. Probably answering emails while simultaneously talking to me. “That Miss Kate. She’s overseeing your hours, right? You could kill two birds with one car ride. Get to school, build rapport, make hernothate you.”
“Well…” I hesitate, running through our limited interactions.
Heather groans. “Michael. Don’t tell me youalreadypissed her off?”
“I mean, I may have—playfully—teased her?”
There’s silence on the other end. A long, heavy silence. Then, Heather mutters, “For the love of God, please tell me you didn’t insult her.”
I wince, remembering that I just called her a gremlin, stole her Kindle, and mocked her for using cigarettes. “I wouldn’t say ‘insult.’ More like… established an entertaining dynamic.”
“Established a—” She cuts herself off with an audible inhale, like she’s physically restraining herself from beating me up through the phone. “Michael, I swear to you, if you ruin this—”
“I won’t ruin it,” I say quickly. “I’ll do damage control.”
“Good! Let me know how it goes.” She ends the call, and I’m left staring at my own reflection in the mirror.
