Page 9 of Hard to Break

“Yeah, well, I’ll get the Kodiaks into playoffs and make you proud again.”

“It’s not only about basketball.”

“Don’t tell our owner that. Or the GM. Or my agent.”

I hug her and help her find a seat with another woman who introduces herself immediately.

Two watchful staff are already there, helping residents and chatting with them.

My hand finds Brooke’s as we head for the doors. Halfway there, I pull up. “Did we forget something? Her meds?—”

“Her pill dispenser is in the bathroom on the counter. The staff have her list so they can check in with her.” Brooke tugs me forward.

“Right.” I shake my head.

Now that this moment is here, I’m reminded how many fewer adult decisions I’ve had to make than most people. Since college, every aspect of my health has been prescribed, my hours are filled with games and practice and treatment and travel.

The team’s sports psychologists are always reminding us to control what we can.

This was something I could control.

I hope I did the right thing.

“It’s going to be great,” she promises as we step outside.

My thoughts shift to Brooke.

Emotions that are so big they threaten to take me out fill my chest, stretch my ribs.

It’s not that they’re new exactly. It’s almost as if they’ve always taken up space in the dark closet of my mind, but I’ve been afraid to look at them for too long or I’ll be found out. But since she moved in, I’ve found myself leaving the door open. I glance at them when I pass, even nod in acknowledgment.

Lately, they don’t wait for me to come looking. They pop out and make themselves known at every damned interval.

Does she feel it too?

I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on her, especially with everything going on.

One more thing I can control.

“Time to grab dinner?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah.”

I shake off the overwhelming feelings and drive us downtown. On the way, I call my favorite restaurant to ask if they have a table for us. They confirm but ask if we can wait until six when they officially open.

Since we’re not in a hurry, I find parking a few blocks away. On our way to the restaurant, we pass a park with a basketball court. Some teenagers are playing pickup, one even wearing shorts despite the cold and snow at the edge of the court. The asphalt is warm enough to be dry, and their sneakers fly across it.

I’m itching to join them.

It’s barely a minute before one of the guys looks over and yanks on his friend’s shirt. “Look. Is that…?”

“Shit, it is.”

The game stops, and I wave. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Are you kidding? We all play on our high school teams.” He names two local schools. “We watch every Kodiaks game on TV.”

“You ever been to one?” I ask.

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