Page 111 of Between Love and War
Just as I’m thinking about how much I want to call her again—to hear her voice, even if it’s just to talk about nothing at all—the gym doors creak open. My teammates start shuffling in, bags slung over shoulders, earbuds in, the usual nods and greetings. Some are rookies I don’t recognize—young guys who used to be on rival school teams, now pulled into the national roster. Others are familiar, ones I’ve played with off-season. Some I’ve gone toe-to-toe with in championship games. And now we’re all here. In the national team thatI’mheading.
“Hey, Cap!” one of the guys says.
“It’s really you,” a rookie approaches.
Coach shuffles in just after them, and says, “Rule number one, be on time. See that?” He points to me. “Michael’s always early. Always.” The others quickly drop their bags and stand in the middle of the gym.
Coach approaches me and gives me a fist bump. “Glad to have you back, Mike.”
We run drills. Shooting. Passing. Defense. The basics. Stuff I could do with my eyes closed. But today? Everything’s just... slightly off. I miss a free throw. Then another.
One of the rookies blinks at me. “You good, Cap?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just a bit shaken.”
Coach blows his whistle. “Let’s go again, same drill.”
The others fall in line. I do too. Muscle memory kicks in, but the rhythm’s not quite there. It’s like I’m thinking three seconds too late. Like my body’s in the gym, but my heart’s pacing outside with Kate, back in Magnolia Heights.
We switch to a scrimmage. I move better when there’s contact—when I can pivot and push. It’s easier to play when you’re not alone with your thoughts. For two quarters, I get my groove back. I even make a couple of solid passes, nail a three, block a drive. I also dunk a little too hard, and someone yells, “There’s the old Michael!” while another shouts, “The prodigy himself!”
But I don’t feel like the old Michael. Not at all.
Old Michael only thought about the next game, the next win, the next stat line. This Michael keeps wondering if Kate’s eaten, if she’s tired, if she’s finally told someone no today.
Coach pulls us aside halfway through. “Good intensity,” he says. ”Mike, that was good, but we both know you can do better than that.”
I chuckle under my breath. He’s always been tough with me, and it always works. Because, when I play well, I get thisvalidation. And I used to be the textbook example of a self-absorbed athlete so validation was my bread and butter.
When practice ends, rookies come up to me to give me a pat on the back. Some asked for photos. Chris approaches me and says, “You’re terrible today.”
“Thanks for the warm welcome, buddy,” I say with a chuckle.
“No, seriously. You’re distracted.” He walks with me as we step into the locker room. “Comeback game’s in a week.”
“I know, I know.” I smile. “Just a bit rusty. I’ll practice more,” I say. “Besides, it’s not a legit tournament. It’s a friendly comeback game.”
Chris gives me a pointed look. “Yes, that’s organized for you. Imagine playing terribly on a game set up solely for you.”
“Thanks for the pressure,” I mutter, though I’m smiling as I say it.
“Anytime.” He throws me a towel. “Just get your head right.”
He disappears into the showers, and I’m left alone in front of my locker. I peel off my jersey and continue to the showers too.
When I’m done, I leave the gym. But I don’t head straight home to watch game replays or analyze my form. I walk to the park near the arena instead. I sit on a bench. I watch people pass—kids with their parents, a couple walking a dog, teenagers playing streetball.
And I let myself just… be. No pressure of who I am. Just a man figuring out what else he can be.
And maybe that’s the most important game I’ve ever played.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Kate
Love sucks. Forget what I said about how I want to experience it. It sucks. It’s not magical or romantic. It’s not butterflies and forehead kisses and sleepy good mornings. No. It’s crying into a pillow at 1AM because you saw a basketball ad.
It’s brushing your cat’s fur until he (audibly) complains and leaves you. It’s avoiding your friends and your sister so they don’t tell you “I told you so.”
