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* * *
The balloon on my porch brings a stupid smile to my face, and Dad says, “I don’t get it. Why the boo!?”
“Because it’s Ava,” I tell him, following him to the car. “And it’s my good luck charm.” Once in the car, I pop the balloon, shove it down my boxer shorts. “And I could use all the luck in the world tonight.” Tonight’s opponents are currently on top of the leaderboard, a team full of all-stars. Every single person on their roster has already committed to various D1 colleges throughout the country, and my team is expecting me to perform, to outsmart, outrun, and outplay every one of them.
“You’ll be fine, Connor,” Dad says.
But I wasn’t fine. Not even close. I’m double-teamed during every second I’m on the court, and I can barely get a possession, let alone score. My frustration shows in the way I yell at my team, pushing them to go harder, stronger, and then halfway through the third, I hit my fucking limit. I throw my mouthguard across the court, get a technical and hand the opposition two free throws. I ride the rest of the quarter on the bench with my head between my shoulders and my pulse racing, blood boiling.
It’s our first L for the season.
My team lacks any form of responsibility for the way the game played out.
Coach is pissed at me.
Dad is disappointed in me.
And I haven’t said a word to anyone since the final buzzer.
For the past few weeks, I’ve come just short of killing myself to play as hard as I did tonight, and it wasn’t enough.
I’m not enough.
While Dad drives us home, in silence, I flip the phone in my hand, jumping every time a notification comes through. Usually there’s a text waiting for me when I get to the locker room, a good game, #3 or something similar. But there was nothing after this game or the last, and it just amplifies all the insecurities I’ve been trying to ignore.
When Dad stops by the gas station to buy the bags of ice I’ll be soaking in later, I hit my limit of patience and send her a text.
Connor: You okay?
Ava: Can I call you later?
My eyes drift shut, my frustration growing.
Connor: Yeah
* * *
I sit in the stupid bath, my teeth chattering, muscles recoiling, and my phone gripped tight in my hand, waiting for Ava.
By the time I get out, she still hasn’t called, and I ignore all the other calls and texts from the guys on the team.
I don’t need them.
I need her.
After checking that my phone is charging, working and the ringer is set to the loudest possible setting, I settle in my chair, college essay prep notes and applications in front of me. The screen of my laptop is bright against my eyes, the cursor flashing. I type, delete, retype, over and over, but nothing sticks because none of it matters.
An hour passes.
Then two.
Three.
I read over some past essays, make more notes.
Four.
Five.
