Page 110 of Between Love and War
“My truth?” he says.
“I like you, Katie.” His voice is soft. “Not casual. Not fleeting.” The lights buzz softly overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. But here, in this half-court under the stars, I feel like I’ve stepped into the kind of stillness that only happens once or twice in a lifetime.
“I wish I could tell you I had it all figured out—how this works, what happens next, how we make it work with our lives in two different worlds. But I don’t. I just know that being with you feels like the most right thing in my life.”
I sigh, taking the ball from him. “I’m not done yet,” he says with a chuckle.
“That’s not how the game works. It’s one truth at a time.” I take the ball from his hand but it won’t budge. “You’re cheating,” I say, trying to make it lighter.
“I’m not playing to win,” he says as he looks at me.
I drop my hands to my sides and wait for him to continue.
“I don’t want to leave, Katie,” he says. “God, Idon’t. You make everything better. You calm me down. You challenge me. You make me laugh in ways I didn’t know I still could. And yeah, part of me wants to be selfish and ask you to come with me. But I won’t. That’s not fair to you, and it’s not the kind of person I want to be for you.”
He swallows again. “I’ve got a lot in my life that still doesn’t make sense. Still feels broken or unresolved or like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. But through all of it, there’s one thing that feels simple. Certain. Clear.”
He presses the basketball into my hands. His voice drops to a whisper.
“You.”
I hold the ball in my hand, unsure of what to do with it. Do I hug it? Throw it? Use it as a shield from all these emotions suddenly charging at me?
I sigh, because I am also very,veryunsure of what to do with my heart. Stupid little thing.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Michael
Iwas going to tell her that I love her. I was going to tell her that I’m ready to figure out ways to make this work. I’d even join less leagues for her. I’d step down as captain. I’d find something else I could do. Anything.
But I don’t want her to feel pressured by having to keep up with me, or just saying yes to say yes, like she always does. I don’t want me to be the one that makes her want to step out into a backyard and retreat in solitude. I want to be the one shegoes to.The one she runs toward so she can rest from being too polite to everyone else. But I also know I can’t ask her to rearrange her life to fit into mine. Not when I don’t even know what my life looks like right now. What itwilllook like in the future.
I sit on the bleachers of the gym, waiting for my teammates to arrive. The air smells like sweat and resin, that familiar, oddly comforting scent of rubber. It looks the same—same court, same lights, same fading paint on the walls—but I feel different. Off.Like I’ve grown two inches taller and don’t fit here the way I used to.
It’s been four months since I’ve been here. Four months off the court. And for someone who used to play every single day, that’s practically a lifetime. I thought I would dread it. I thought I’d count the minutes until I could lace my shoes up again, feel the rubber of the ball, the squeak of the soles, the thrill of a perfect shot.
But I didn’t.
Instead, that one fear I used to carry—the fear that I wasn’t anyone without basketball—started to dissolve. And in its place was this… weird, unexpected kind of hope. Like maybe I could be something more. Someone more.
There’s something about Magnolia Heights that does that to you. Maybe it’s the slower pace. The people who care less about your status and more about your ability to reach things on a tall shelf.
I think of the kids I got to teach over the past few months. The chaos of arts-and-crafts mornings, the sticky fingers, the laughter when I accidentally glued googly eyes to my pants. And then the afternoons, when I showed them how to dribble. Just simple drills. But they loved it. And I loved seeing them light up. Some of them were naturals. Some just wanted to bounce the ball as high as they could and run. But all of them were discovering something—and I got to be a part of that. It was the first time I felt like I was contributing to the game without playing it.
Maybe I could start something. A program. A camp. A workshop. About what it means to be an athleteandsomething else. I’ll be the guide I never had.
Maybe I can run it with Kate. The thought comes out of nowhere, but I can already see it: her organizing sign-up sheets, making name tags, making the kids laugh. Me handling thedrills, showing them how to pivot and pass. Us baking the snacks the night before.
I sigh. I already miss her. Technically, I’m still going back there, but I already feel her drifting away from me. Because I can’t see a future where both our dreams come true. One where she lives the quiet life and I discover myself with her by my side.
And if someone’s dream has to be compromised… I’d rather it be mine.
I’d rather she stay in the town she loves. I’d rather she open her bakery and teach preschoolers and live the life she’s imagined—quiet, rooted, honest. I’d rather she find someone who doesn’t have a calendar that changes with every tournament. Someone who doesn’t have to explain why his schedule is always ‘tentative.’ Someone who shows up. Every day.
But still—selfishly, hopefully—I wonder if maybe I could be that guy. Someday. Maybe, one day, when I’ve built something more than a stat sheet or a comeback story, I’ll be worthy of the kind of life she wants.
Not the version I am now. But the one I’m still becoming. The one who knows how to rest. The one who knows how to stay.
