The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be)

I’ve tried to talk to her a hundred times. She won’t come to the door. She’s blocking my calls. I even left flowers for her birthday, and they’re still sitting there a week later, all wilted and shriveled.

Every morning, when Dominic and I come down to leave for morning practice, he says the same thing as we approach the door. “Keep walking, just keep walking.”

I go to practice, go to class, come home. Every day, the same.

We had an away game this week, and I thought maybe when I got back she’d be willing to talk to me. I told my parents she’d said yes to Thanksgiving, because I thought for sure by then we would’ve figured it out.

Tonight’s practice goes as usual. Fifteen minutes warming up, stretching. Twenty minutes shooting, skill work, jump shots, rebounds. Coach walks around, watching us, keeps shouting, “Game speed, gentlemen!” Our assistant coach studies my shooting, takes some notes on his tablet.

One hour on defense drills. A half hour of offense, going over plays and sets. The assistant coach is watching me closely again, I can feel it, probably trying to catch me screwing up. The live section ends with a half-court scrimmage that seems to go so much more smoothly than usual. Everyone’s playing well, calling the plays, cooperating. It doesn’t feel like such a struggle just to make it through like it usually does. Coach is even in good spirits for a change, which helps.

“That was decent today, guys—good communication,” he says, clapping his hands a few times. “You actually looked like a team out there for a change!” And then, to my disbelief, he adds, in front of everyone, “Nice work, Miller.”

As practice winds down, we all do some more shooting. With only a few minutes left on the clock, everyone’s loosening up, talking, chilling. “Too much laughing means you must not be tired yet!” Coach warns, and blows the whistle, adds ten more minutes. But I don’t even notice it’s over until a couple of the other guys stop at my basket on their way to the locker room.

“Damn, Miller,” one of them says to me as they walk by.

“You’re a machine, man!” the other says.

I catch the ball and stop. “Huh?” I ask, breathing heavily as I wipe the sweat from my face. I look around, suddenly feeling off-balance without the rhythm of the ball to match my pulse. They were the last ones out here. Coach is standing to the side of me, watching.

“Like night and day,” he says, walking toward me, shaking his head. “Good to see you’re back.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Oh, don’t fish for praise, Miller. That’s obnoxious.”

“No, I wasn’t, I—”

He interrupts me by holding his hand up, silencing me. “Whatever you’re doing, just keep it up.” He gives me a firm pat on the back and walks off the court, satisfied.

What am I doing?

I’m hating myself every minute of every day for hurting the last person in the world I ever wanted to hurt. I’m also sleeping too much and letting my classes slide. I’m lying to my parents about Eden. And pretty much my entire life is in the process of going down the toilet. But, dammit, I can play basketball. The one place I know what I’m supposed to do and I can do it well and make the people around me happy.

We win our next two games. I’ve honestly never played better. I’m magically redeemed in everyone’s eyes now—at least everyone on the team. Even Jon has stopped giving the stink eye every time he looks at me. All I needed to do was be perfect. Easy.

But somehow it used to feel better.This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

That’s what I’m thinking about when I’m walking out to meet Dominic at his car after this away game—in which we crushed the home team, embarrassingly so.

“Hey, Miller?” I hear Coach call out to me in the cold.

I stop and turn around. He’s huddled outside the entrance with the assistants, talking with the coaches on the other team.

“Yeah, Coach?” I answer.

He takes a step toward me, bowing out of his conversation for a moment, to pay extra-special attention to me. Then he smiles, a rare genuine smile, and under his breath says something meant only for my ears: “Glad to see you finally got your priorities straight, son.”

He’s expecting a response, I know. But I can’t seem to gather enough fucks to give him one, at least not one he’d approve of, so I just stand there, seeing my breath surrounding me in a fog.

“Go on,” he says. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it. Enjoy Thanksgiving with your family.”

“Thanks,” I manage.