Page 67 of Between Love and War
“Just… look at the email I sent you. Read it before you decide. You don’t have to say yes right now.” She pauses. I can hear her typing in the background, because of course she’s doingten things at once. “But official training camp starts in three months,” she adds. “If we’re going to get ahead of the press cycle, it needs to happen soon.”
I hum some kind of acknowledgment. She takes the hint.
“Alright. Call me when you’re done pretending to think about it.” She hangs up without saying goodbye. Classic Heather.
I lower the phone and let it rest on my chest.
Heather’s right. I can’t hide forever. Eventually, I’ll have to talk. Answer the questions. Smile like I mean it. Let the public see therealme again. The polished, unproblematic version. The sanitized golden boy with the charming smile and just enough nonchalance.
I sit up, then walk out of the gym. I can’t run away forever. But I still have at least a few weeks to just, I don’t know… eat cookies.
When I step out of the gym, Heather calls again.
“Yes?” I ask, bracing myself for another ambush call about PR tactics.
“I forgot,” she says. “You have to meet with me somewhere tomorrow. Or drop by here at the agency. They’ll give you cakes for sure.”
“Cakes?”
There’s a long silence, as if Heather is giving me time to reach the conclusion. After a few seconds, she sighs. “You’re hopeless. It’s your 30th birthday, Mike.”
Oh. Right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Kate
It’s almost time for the holiday break. Just two more weeks until the last day of classes, and I’ll be free to sleep in, eat leftover ham, and finish the cheesy romance novel sitting under my bed.
It also means Michael’s almost leaving.
He hasn’t said anything about it yet, but I know how this works. Community service hours end, and so does whatever… thing this is. I haven’t even written his evaluation yet. I was supposed to. I’m the supervising teacher. It was literally part of the agreement.
But I keep forgetting because he doesn’t feel like someone doing community service. He never clock-watches. Never drags his feet. He just shows up like it’s where he wants to be, and somehow, he’s good with the kids. Patient. Present.
It’s messing with my ability to compartmentalize. Besides, it’s not like he actuallyneedsthat evaluation. He’s just here for the PR stuff.
Right now, I’m sprawled on the living room rug with a pair of scissors and a paper strawberry factory forming at my feet. Tomorrow’s craft theme is ‘Fruits We Like,’ which I now regret choosing, because cutting dozens of symmetrical fruit shapes is an actual form of punishment.
I’m technically still in rest mode since I just recovered from food poisoning, but I’m bad at doing nothing. So now I’m snipping paper fruit and watching TV with Haley and Mom.
“Celebrity Check-in!” the news anchor announces with a very upbeat voice. The screen cuts to a montage of slow-motion red carpet clips, glossy smiles, and a background track that sounds like elevator music.
Mom barely looks up from her knitting. Haley’s flipping through a magazine. I keep cutting strawberries.
And then…
“Today marks the 30th birthday of basketball star Michael Lee,” the anchor says, as if reading a weather update. “Still currently under temporary suspension, the athlete is nowhere to be found. But fans all over the country are giving him well-wishes…”
My scissors freeze mid-slice as I stare at the TV.
They show a photo of him, probably from a press event. He’s in a suit, mid-laugh, looking like someone Idon’tknow. The Michael I know has his hair always tousled, and always wears clothes that are a perfect fit for bedtime.
“Oh, that guy,” Mom says, squinting at the screen. “Our neighbor.”
Haley snorts. “You mean Kate’s secret boyfriend.”
I throw crumpled paper at Haley. Before my mom can respond, the news anchor continues, “The latest we’ve heardfrom him is he’s laying low, somewhere, with an unidentified curly-haired woman that the internet has labeled his secret girlfriend.” And then they flash that photo of Michael’s Instagram story where my hair was peeking out from the door.
