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Something you work hard to create.
Love is not something that simply exists because you say it.
Love is not a noun.
Love is a verb.
FIVE
connor
It’s only been a week since school started, and I’m already counting down the days until it’s over. I’m sure things will get better. They have to. Once the season starts, I’ll be able to focus all my energy on ball. But right now, I’m feeling… stuck. Somewhere between my old life and my new one. I’m struggling to navigate the hallways, not just geographically but socially, too. The kids are different, the classes are harder, the teachers are stricter, and the girls… the girls are on another level. I’ve been approached more in the past week than I have in my entire life. They know what they want, and I’m sure they’re used to getting it. I could lie—tell them that I have a girl back home. Truth is, I’m out of my damn element, and every morning when I wake up, I feel like I’m drowning.
I tell Dad all this while lifting weights in our garage.
“It could be worse,” Dad offers.
“Yeah? How?”
He helps me settle the bar onto the rack before handing me a water bottle. Then he raises his eyebrows at me as if to ask do you really want to know?
I down half the bottle and shake my head. No, I don’t want to know. I’ve heard it too many times before. Dad’s a paramedic, so he’s seen it all. He was lucky enough to get a job here doing the same. The downside? He works nights.
I admire him for what he does. Honestly, I do. But sometimes I wish I could just complain about things and not have it thrown in my face. Sometimes I want to vent without feeling guilty for having those thoughts.
And sometimes I want to go back to my old school and play ball as if our future wasn’t riding on it. To be fair, he’s never made me feel as though that responsibility was mine.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it.
Going pro isn’t just the end game. It’s our ticket out. Our saving grace. Being a single parent is tough enough but raising a kid whose goal in life is to be a paid athlete—that’s a whole other level. Training camps, uniforms, gear, gas to and from practices and games—games that up until a couple years ago he never missed, the time off work, the food. Goddamn, I eat a lot. I’m surprised he still somehow affords the roof over our heads.
“It’s just a year, Connor. Do the work. Stay focused. No distractions—”
“Like girls?” I cut in, smirking.
“It only takes one,” he mumbles, removing a weight off the bar.
His words hit me hard and fast. I lower my gaze and say, repeating his words from earlier, “It could be worse.”
He crosses his arms. “Yeah? How?”
I shrug. “I could be nothing more than a stain on your bedsheets.”
He says, his tone filled with regret, “That’s not what I meant, son.”
“Yeah? Because that’s not what I heard, Dad.”
SIX
connor
I was an awkward kid, a loner, anxious, with barely any social skills. On the advice of my teachers, Dad had me trying a bunch of things to help build my confidence and make me feel like I was part of something. Anything.Looking back, I know he went above and beyond to help me find my place in this world, to make me feel as comfortable as I could in my own skin. For most of my life, he’d played the part of both parents, which I’m sure comes with a level of difficulty I can’t even imagine. He’d always been there for me. Always. Which I guess is why when he says things like he did last night—things in passing that aren’t meant to offend—it cuts deep.
Deeper than I’ll ever let show.
Anyways, the point is I spent a good year of my life trying everything: baseball, football, soccer, karate, Scouts, sewing. You name it, I was there. But I didn’t love any of them, and nothing stuck. Not until I touched a basketball for the first time when I was ten years old, and something just… clicked.
My coaches said I was a natural-born athlete, which makes sense, I guess, given my genetics.
