Page 51 of Between Love and War
Kate bends down, conspiratorial. “Okay. Step one: We stretch. Step two: We run…”
“Step three,” Polly adds, “We ambush Tito Wowski with pillows.” They seal their huddle with a “Go, Team!”
They begin “stretching” on the living room floor, which is mostly just exaggerated toe touches. Polly throws me a jersey, grinning widely. “You too, Tito Wowski.”
I sigh with mock defeat and slip the jersey over my head.
It takes all of five minutes before the room erupts into chaos. Polly leads the charge with a decorative throw pillow as her weapon of choice. Kate follows close behind, laughing breathlessly, using the couch cushions as cover. I dodge left, then right, trying to shield myself with one of the larger ones—only to be pelted square in the chest by a rogue cushion from Polly.
“Direct hit!” she screams, triumphant.
I stumble backward dramatically, landing on the beanbag like I’ve been taken out by a sniper.
And then, for a heartbeat, I just lie there.
Breathing. Smiling. Watching them.
Kate throws her head back laughing, her hair a mess, jersey askew. Polly flops beside me, still giggling, cheeks pink and glowing. And for a brief, silent second, the room is just full of warmth. And laughter. And happiness.
I wish I could bottle this. Freeze it. Stretch it out longer than it’s meant to last.
Because for someone who’s spent most of his adult life in transit—on team buses, in airport lounges, in locker rooms that all blur together, this feels like a special moment.
And I know I’ve dreaded ever coming here in the first place, but suddenly, the idea of going back to the usual rhythm—of waking up in silence, of training alone, of eating alone while watching from my phone—feels heavier than it did just hours ago.
We decide to end the night withFrozen, because that’s Polly’s decree.
The three of us pile into the pillow fort—a structurally questionable but spiritually sound construction of blankets, couch cushions, and exactly one flashlight clipped to the inside like a budget chandelier. Polly takes the center, naturally, with a bowl of popcorn in her lap and her stuffed dog Waffles clutched in one hand.
Fifteen minutes in, I hear the first soft snore.
I glance to my left.
Polly, mouth open, out cold.
Her head has fallen against Kate’s shoulder, one hand still loosely tangled in Kate’s shirt. A kernel of popcorn is stuck to her cheek. She looks like a very small general who’s fought a long, victorious battle and passed out on the battlefield.
Not only that, but as I glance at Kate, she’s also asleep. From this angle I can see her long eyelashes, and the way they curlnaturally, like her hair. She’s not exactly snoring, but there’s a rhythmic sound to her breathing. There’s a softness in her face I rarely get to see. No teasing smile. No quick retort ready to be fired. Just… quiet.
Peaceful.
It does something to me. Twists something in my chest again. And I can’t help but think that for the first time in my life, I start to consider that maybe my life outside of basketball shouldn’t have to be something as grand. Maybe it’s just something as grounding as having my own family. A wife, a kid, people to go home to when the world is loud.
And oddly enough, when I allow myself to envision that reality, it looks a lot like this.
Eventually, I start to move—careful not to wake either of them—as I shift out from under the blanket roof. I grab a blanket off the back of the couch and crawl back just far enough to drape it over them both.
Kate stirs slightly, instinctively tucking the fabric closer around Polly, her hand resting protectively over Pol’s arm.
I watch for just a beat longer.
Then I let them be.
Because if I know anything, it’s that moments like this don’t happen often—and when they do, you don’t rush them. You just sit with them and hope like hell you don’t screw it up later.
It’s five in the morning when my eyes snap open. Years of early training sessions have wired my body like an alarm clock that doesn’t believe in weekends or holidays. For a second, I’m disoriented. The faint blue light of dawn spills through the window, painting soft shadows across the living room. I blink and sit up slowly, the couch groaning beneath me. My back does too.
Then I remember: the pillow fort. The popcorn.Frozen.
