Page 105 of Between Love and War
“Is that where you met the curly haired woman you accidentally posted on your Instagram last month?”
I chuckle dryly. “Yeah.”
I contemplate introducing Kate to everyone. That this is the curly haired girl. This is the one who made me want to stay somewhere. The one who made me wonder what life outside basketball would be, and the possibility that it’s not so bad. But when I look at her, she’s already fidgeting and nervously lookingaround. She’s never been a fan of attention. And besides, we haven’t really talked about what we are yet, so I can’t really expect her to be appreciative of being ambushed today.
The press chuckles lightly. I don’t take it back.
“Are you two—?”
I shake my head gently. “That’s between us, please.”
The reporter nods, and the other reporter stands. “I’m gonna go straight to the point here, sir,” she says. “We’re all wondering. What’s your story of the referee incident?”
There it is. I take a breath. I know what they want to hear. I know what Heather told me to say—keep it light, spin it clean. Say the pressure got to me. Say it was the heat of the moment. Smile like I’ve learned from it but don’t linger on the why.
But I’m tired of being the polished version of myself. Tired of pretending that nothing ever shakes me. Because the truth is, I’ve been shaken for a long time. And no one ever noticed, because I never let them.
So I smile softly, and say, “When I shoved that ref, everyone scrambled to explain it.” I repeat the words I told Kate when we were in Tagaytay. “Some judged, some defended. They said there was a deeper reason.”
“But…” I start, looking at Kate. She urges me to continue, with her eyes pleading. “But there’s not. There’s only me and my insecurity.”
There’s a murmur from the press. Someone shifts in their seat. I keep going.
“I told him he made a bad call. And he said he could screw up and keep his job. But if I couldn’t play, I’d be nothing.” My jaw tightens. “And that stung more than I care to admit. Because deep down… I believed him.” I look at the reporter as she scribbles in her notebook. “As someone whose only talent is shooting a ball through a hoop, that stung. And I… I snapped.”
I glance down at my hands. I’ve always seen them as tools. Instruments. The things that made me valuable. But lately, they’ve done more than catch passes and sink jumpers.
They’ve held Kate when she was sick. Held her hand, her face. Touched things gently, carefully.
I take a breath. “There’s no excuse for what I did,” I say. “Nobody should be hurt because I’m afraid I’m only worth something when I’m winning.”
I look at Kate again. Her eyes are glassy. She's blinking fast like she doesn't want anyone to see.
“I’m trying to unlearn that. Because someone told me that even if I weren’t Michael Lee, I’d still be Michael. And I’d still matter.”
There’s a silence after I speak, one that usually doesn’t come when there are dozens of cameras and reporters in front of you. I don’t fill the silence. I just sit with it.
Across the room, Kate swipes at her cheek again, quickly this time, as if hiding her tears might make her invisible. It doesn’t.
I want to go to her. I want to tell her that it’s true. That she’s the reason I started to see things differently. That I wanted to show her that she, too, can choose things differently.
A reporter clears her throat. “Michael,” she says, her voice gentler now, “do you think this time away has changed you?”
I let out a breath. “I think it’s making me realize I never gave myself a chance to figure out who I was without the jersey.”
I think of the preschool kids who didn’t care that I was on a billboard once. Of Kate, who looked unimpressed the first time we met. Her friends who are slowly becoming mine. Manang Linda who always hovers but lets me live quietly.
“I used to think being open was dangerous,” I say slowly. “That if people saw the real me, they’d realize I wasn’t as put together as I looked. But pretending is exhausting.”
Another reporter, one I vaguely recognize from sports coverage, leans forward. “So what now? Where does Michael Lee go from here?”
Well, where does he go?
“Um,” I start. “I’ll still play, of course. I’ll get ready for the SEA Games.” It’s all I’m able to say, because I still don’t know who I’d be without all this. “Then I’ll figure it out from there.”
The reporter nods, scribbling down my answer, but she doesn’t press me further. No one does.
Another reporter clears his throat. “Thanks for your honesty, Michael,” he says, his voice a little softer than before. “Takes guts to say that in front of all of us.” I blink, surprised. Not by the comment. But by the thank you.
