Page 39 of The Girlfriend Game
After showering and eating breakfast, I turn on the news to catch up on national and world events as I get dressed and finish drying my hair.
Standing in the closet half-naked, trying to figure out what to wear, I hear his name mentioned by the TV announcer. My breath stalls in my chest and I whirl around to face the television.
“Local Seattle resident and Puget Sound Pilots forward, Zeke Forester, a national champion and two-time All-Star NBA player, was in Atlanta recently volunteering at a youth basketball camp for underprivileged children. We had an opportunity to catch up with the athlete to talk about how he’s been doing since the incident that resulted in his game-ending collapse this past May. Here’s our correspondent, Janet Wells.”
The screen flashes from the studio to an indoor arena, where a very short, middle-aged reporter with a bad haircut stands next to Zeke, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, holding the microphone in front of her as the camera pans out to capture both in the frame.
My heart flutters at the sight of him. Gone is the beard he’s worn since I’ve known him to display a strong cut jawline and sculpted chin, full lips that tip up into a broad and beautiful smile. His eyes twinkle their mischievous brown.
The man is so gorgeous it hurts.
On instinct, I touch my finger to my lips, gliding them in a circular motion as if to trace the ghost of a memory of where his lips sealed over mine.
“Zeke, correct me if I’m wrong, but this is the first time in your ten-year history in professional basketball that you’ve done any sort of volunteer outreach. Why is it important to you now? Is it because of what happened to you on the court back in May?”
He looks thoughtfully at the reporter for a moment and then to the camera, his eyes flashing an emotion I’ve not seen before in our conversations. Charmingly bashful with a hint of self-consciousness.
“You’re absolutely right, Janet. I guess you could say I had to hit rock bottom or, in this case, the hardwood to realize what was going on with me. I’m not the only one who is affected by mental health issues. Regardless of socio economic, race, wealth, or education, it’s a problem that many of us, like me, try to hide. There’s a stigma associated with being diagnosed with depression. I’m here this week to ensure these children”—he motions behind him where a group of youth are playing ball—“get a shot at learning techniques on how to play the game, but also learn a bit about themselves and how to express their emotions.”
Janet nods in agreement. “Definitely an important cause. And what about you? Have you sought out help for your own depression?”
I gasp in trepidation, uncertain whether Zeke had any intention of sharing the knowledge that he attends therapy with the public. It’s a brave thing for anyone to do. It’s not easy to be open about or confess a hidden part of themselves that so many people inaccurately describe as a weakness. We’d spoken a lot about this in our sessions together. That seeking help and getting treatment for any illness, whether physical or mental, is the only answer to living an authentic life.
Zeke gives a self-deprecating chuckle, scratching his forehead with a finger.
“I have and it’s been the best thing for me. One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned after my on-court breakdown is that we can’t hide from ourselves. Every single one of us deals with pain in our lives. Without a release, or a way of transforming that pain into something productive, it will eat away at us over time. So, to answer your question, yes, I’ve been working with a counselor and life coach who has helped in ways I never knew I needed.”
“That’s wonderful, Zeke. You’re like the new poster boy for mental health awareness in pro basketball.”
He chuckles good-naturedly. “I don’t know about that, Janet, but I do want viewers to know that there is help and hope. They don’t have to go it alone or pretend it doesn’t exist. I don’t want there to be a stigma associated with mental health. I also realize that there may also be financial barriers preventing some from seeking treatment. Because of that, I’ve started a foundation to help those who need it.”
An organization’s name and number scroll up on the bottom of the TV screen and I stand incomplete and utter shock.
The Forester Foundation. Because life is worth taking the shot.
I blink several times, tears filling my eyes as my heart pounds wildly inside my chest. Holy shit. Zeke Forester is using his own personal mental health crisis to help others who are also struggling.
Something breaks loose inside me. I place my palm over my heart, noting the erratic beats.
It’s no use. There’s no sense fighting my heart any longer. I know what I want. I know what I need in my life.
And it’s Zeke Forester.
