Page 122 of Between Love and War
This time, I’ll be looking for one face in the crowd.
And if I find the courage—if I find her eyes, and they don’t turn away—then maybe I’ll finally say the words.
Not because I want anything in return.
But because she deserves to hear them.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Kate
We reach the arena just in time for the ticket guy to give our passes a once-over, then a suspiciously respectful twice-over, before waving us into the roped-off VIP lane. The carpet here is thicker, the lights softer—like even the hallway knows you paid more. But we didn’t pay, technically. Our tickets just say ‘Player #17 Guest.’ Which is, obviously, worth more than money.
“I can’t believe this,” Richard says. “I get to watch a VIP game before I leave.” He’s leaving for the States in a few weeks. Or months. I don’t know. But he’s always been a basketball fan, and now a friend of Michael’s, so he’s really happy.
The VIP section is its own little bubble—cushioned chairs instead of hard plastic, cup holders that actually fit human-sized drinks, and a view so close I can see the sheen on the polished wood of the court. The air smells like popcorn and nacho cheese, and every few seconds a wave of crowd noise rolls in from the general seating, louder and wilder.
Everyone sits behind Dan and me. And he’s been pleasantly kind so far. As we take our seats, he offers to get us popcorn outside. When he leaves, I quickly turn my back to look at my friends. “I’m freaking out,” I say to no one in particular.
“As you should,” Richard replies flatly.
“It’s okay, Kate,” Emily says. “Ignore them. Just breathe.”
Breathe. That’s what the lungs do, right?
The lights dim, and the crowd roars like they’ve all been waiting for this moment since birth. Music pounds through the speakers. Bass heavy, chest-thumping, like someone plugged my ribcage into a subwoofer. I can feel it in my teeth.
Overhead, the big screen explodes into a highlight reel: sweat-slick training drills, quick cuts of fast breaks, dunks that make the rim rattle, that perfectswishof the net. Everything is edited perfectly, set to a beat that will surely make anyone hyped up.
Dan slides back into his seat just as the announcer’s voice booms through the arena.
“And now,” the announcer booms, “after months away from the court—give it up for our captain, number seventeen… Michael Lee!”
The crowd erupts. It’s not just loud—it’s seismic. Like the floor itself is reacting to his name. I’m pretty sure a car alarm goes off somewhere.
And then he’s there.
Running out into the lights, jersey bright against his skin, moving like the world is right where it should be. There’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes when he first steps onto the court—just a blink, barely visible—but I see it. Because I’m not looking at the screen. I’m not looking at the fireworks or the dancers or the camera flashes.
I’m only looking at him.
He makes a slow turn toward the crowd, toward the VIP seats—and then our eyes meet.
The noise doesn’t stop. The game doesn’t pause. But it’s like everything in me stills, just for a second. I wonder what he sees.If I’ve changed. If I look different from across the world he’s standing in.
I give him the smallest nod. Not a wave. Not a smile. Just something that says I see him.
He blinks, and something in his expression softens. Then he looks away, just as the huddle is called. I push my glasses up, to distract myself.
I expected to feel anxious when I saw the lights on him. Like I’m a stranger he won’t even notice. But somehow, I feel… okay. That maybe I could belong in a life like this…
Then I mentally slap myself. I can’t just decide that in the middle of a basketball game. That’s not how life works. We agreed to move on. Remember? That whole conversation where I smiled and pretended I meant it?
The whistle blows, and the game kicks off like a starting gun. Michael moves with practiced precision. He doesn’t showboat. Doesn’t call for the ball every time. But when he gets it, the court bends around him.
He makes the first basket with a clean jumper from the arc, and the crowd responds like it’s the championship. My friends cheer. Dan claps. I try to act casual, like it doesn’t send something fluttering through my ribs.
Every few minutes, I catch Michael glancing in our direction. He doesn't linger. He doesn’t smile. But he sees me. Again and again.
