Page 86 of Between Love and War
“And?” I ask, voice soft. “Who would you be?” We take a seat on one of the benches, holding our sad snacks.
He exhales a laugh. “No idea. That’s what scares me. I’ve never made space to figure that out.”
He exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the random light radiating from one of the carnival games. “You know… when I shoved that ref, everyone scrambled to explain it. Most people defended me. Said there must’ve been some deeper reason. Pressure. Burnout. A personal loss. Something dramatic.” He pauses, voice tight. “But I’m so ashamed to admit that there wasn’t.”
I didn’t expect him to unpack this tonight, if ever. I remember seeing that news about him. My first thought was that he was inconsiderate. Hot-headed. Another athlete with an attitude. But I never really asked him why.
He looks down at his hands. “It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t noble. He just said something…” he trails off. I don’t push for him to say it, but after a few seconds, he continues. “First, I told him he made a bad call.” He swallows. “And then, he said, ‘I can blow one bad call and keep my job. But if you snap, your whole career’s gone. You’ll be nobody.’”
My breath catches.
Michael lets out a bitter laugh. “And the worst part is… he was right. That’s what got me. Not the call. Not the pressure. Not even him. Just the fact that what he said hit a nerve I’ve been trying to outrun my whole life.”
“Which is?” I ask, softly.
“That I’m only worth something as long as I perform.”
He shrugs. “And that’s why I’ve always told people not to defend me. Because I didn’t deserve to be defended. I acted on my emotions. My insecurities. So, it’s a mistake. A mistake I’m not used to. So when it happened, I kinda just wanted to disappear.” He clears his throat.
“I apologized to the ref,” he says. “Immediately after that game. And he forgave me. He even appeared in interviews after that, saying that it was the intensity of the game or something. Still,” he adds. “He didn’t deserve that.”
Michael looks alarmingly different tonight. I haven’t seen this version of him before. In his media interviews, he was always quick and direct to the point. He never showed a slight crack of emotion. And even I see him as the collected one. The cool one. The person who walks into a room and somehow never tries, never flinches. I figured someone like him didn’t get shaken. Not like this. But now I realize—I’ve been looking at the polished surface without noticing the cracks underneath.
I place the soda can beside me, and reach for his hand. He looks at me, surprised, but he doesn’t let go. Instead he puts his other hand over mine, and he continues talking. “I’ve spent so long pretending everything rolls off me,” he says. “That I’m calm. Chill. Unbothered. But I think I just got scared that time. Scared that I really am nobody if I’m not all this.”
We eat in silence for a while, and the breeze ruffles his hair. He runs a hand over it, and I feel the giddy feelings in my chest again.
I glance over at him. The words are already climbing up my throat before I can stop them.
“For the record,” I say, carefully, “even if you weren’t Michael Lee the athlete… you’d still be Michael.”
He doesn’t react. So I keep going.
“You’d still be the guy who helped my Lolo fix his phone. Who bought me a stand mixer just because I mentioned it inpassing. You’re someone who shows up for people, even when you don’t have to. You remember the smallest things and pretend like it’s no big deal.”
I shake my head, heart full. “You’re thoughtful. Funny. Annoying, but… kind.”
He runs his hand over his hair again because the wind is getting stronger. I glance away before I start memorizing the way a single strand falls on his forehead. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing to me just by existing like this—unguarded, layered, painfully human. And beautiful. So stupidly beautiful I could scream.
Ugh. Why does he have to be attractive? It was a lot easier to ignore when he’s arrogant and mean. But now, he’s also kind. And honest. And I don’t have a reason to hate him anymore.
And what happens when the war is over?
Michael says, softly, “No one ever said that to me before.”
I look at him in confusion. “What part?”
“That I’d still be… me. Even if I wasn’t the guy in the jersey.”
He leans back against the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Most people, when they try to comfort me, they talk about legacy. Or my stats. Or how I’ve already proven myself.” He glances sideways. “But not you.”
I wrap myself tighter with the cardigan. “I mean, those things are cool too. But I just… really don’t care about sports.”
He laughs, full-on this time, and the sound does something weird to my stomach. Not butterflies. More like a startled frog. Still movement, though.
“I figured,” he says. “Which is maybe why this all feels different.”
“What does?”
