Page 94 of Between Love and War
Ugh. This is what happens when you never date anyone and live off rom-coms and Pinterest quotes. Your brain starts assigning meaning to things like shoulder squeezes and nicknames. You spiral. You make things up. You imagine entire relationships based on one well-timed smirk.
Haley’s right. This might be a heartworm.
I settle onto the metal bleachers, squeezing myself in between loud dads. The game is split into two groups: red team versus blue team. Two teachers coach from the sidelines, and Michael’s the referee—whistle around his neck, clipboard in hand, and that infuriatingly breezy confidence he wears like a second skin.
Meanwhile, I am just here. Sitting. Observing. Spiraling quietly while pretending to be a responsible adult, watching the kids on the bench.
The game starts with a sharp whistle and a blur of tiny sneakers squeaking against the court. Kids are running in every direction, missing passes, giggling, yelling at each other to“guard your person!”even though most of them don’t know what that means. I can’t help but laugh at these little munchkins. I can always rely on them to make my day brighter.
But then Michael is right in the middle of it, doing his referee thing. Cheering them on. Laughing. Squatting down to tie someone’s loose shoelace. Being, annoyingly, himself.
And every now and then, my eyes find him again. And I spiral internally again. But it’s fine. I’m fine.
Really.
Michael blows the whistle, and the kids burst into action—if you can call it that. It’s more like a weird stampede. Two kids are arguing over who gets to dribble, three are chasing the ball like it’s a rogue balloon, and one is spinning in circles, arms outstretched like an airplane. Michael’s in the middle of it all, trying to maintain order, his deep voice echoing through the gym: “No traveling! That means you can’t run with the—okay, never mind. Good hustle, Caleb!”
I chuckle to myself as I watch him whistle, run, and help a kid.
He’s patient, as I’ve already established by now. Even when there are adults in the sidelines, he doesn’t try to show off or put on a performative charm. He’s not taking the spotlight away from the children. He gives a high five to a kid who scored on the wrong basket and even gives a couple of fist bumps mid-play.
I clap every time a ball shoots in the basket. No matter which team.
The red team scores accidentally when the ball bounces off someone's head and into the net. Michael throws his hands up like it was a buzzer-beater. “And that’s a point! Impeccable headwork!”
The kids cheer like they’ve won the Olympics. I find myself laughing—until Michael looks my way, catches me smiling, and gives me a tiny wink.
Helpme.
By halftime, most of the kids are sweaty, tired, and lobbying for their ‘sports drink,’ which is really just watered down orangejuice. Michael jogs toward the bleachers with the ball under one arm, his shirt sticking to his back. He looks like every athlete in every sports movie I’ve ever obsessed over.
He gives the kids a short pep talk that includes references to teamwork, friendship, and something about sharing snacks being the foundation of society. The parents are eating it up. One mom whispers to another, “He’s even cuter in person.”
I want to butt in and say that he’s not only cuter in person. He’s kinder too.
But I don’t. I just sip from my water bottle and pretend my heart isn’t doing jumping jacks. Honestly, jumping jacks and somersaults and cartwheels are old news. My heart is like a basketball at a children’s league. All over the place. Going through wrong hoops.
The second half is just as chaotic as the first, but Michael makes it fun. He lets the kids take ridiculous shots and pretends to get knocked over dramatically every time someone runs into him. He lifts one of the smallest boys so he can score, and the entire gym claps like they’ve witnessed a miracle.
The game ends in a tie, because of course it does. Everyone wins. Participation trophies for all.
Once the victory is celebrated and everyone is happy, I start helping by gathering the kids’ bags and water bottles. That’s when I see Michael jogging toward my direction. But my view of him is disrupted by another man. A much shorter man, who’s wearing a crisp polo and jeans.
“Hey,” he says with a friendly smile. “You’re Miss Cruz, right? I’m Dan. My daughter’s in your class—Bea?”
“Yes, of course! She’s such a sweetheart,” I say, instantly turning into Professional Teacher Mode. Polite. Warm. Focused.
Michael stands behind the man, and waits for him to finish talking.
“I just wanted to say thanks for organizing all this,” he continues. “Bea had a blast. And you’re… great with the kids.”
“Thank you,” I say, already moving to check on another child.
But he steps a little closer. “Actually, I was wondering… would you… maybe want to grab coffee sometime?”
“Sorry, what?” I say, blinking. “Like coffee, coffee?”
He laughs. “Yeah. Just thought I’d shoot my shot.”
