Page 60 of Full Court Love

Unclear.

I don’t even know if professing my love would even change his mind. As pissed and hurt as I am–the most I’ve been since my dad died–a deeper part of me understands what he’s doing. In his head, he’s protecting me. He’s sacrificing for me. He thinks he’s being honorable. He thinks he’s putting my needs ahead of his own.

Which I’m pretty sure is the literal definition of love.

But he’s also taking the decision to stay or go away from me, and it’s not his decision to make. But he made it anyway.

Typical man.

Typical, super-hot, caring, loving, athletic, bringing me a Pop-Tart and a Diet Coke, wrapping a blanket around me, turning on my favorite episode ofThe Office, man.

Jordan sits about as far away as possible from me on the couch. He’s awkwardly perched like a bird about to take flight. I can tell that he’s fighting the discomfort of being near me, so why is he even here?

Oh, right. He wants to take care of me.

Screw him.

Dang it, I hate how sweet he is.

I kinda hoped he’d turned into a douchebag overnight so the breakup would be super easy. Instead, he went through sainthood training, and my ankle swelled up to the size of a softball.

What a bizarre turn of events. Those are two things I didn’t have on my bingo card.

My foot is now black and blue up my calf, and even my toes are a little purple. The external is really reflecting the internal here. There’s gotta be some intense symbolism at work, but I don’t have time to unpack it.

I’m hurting very badly right now.

Very, very badly. For so many reasons.

I don’t know how to sort through it all. Every time I try, my eyes well up with huge tears that slowly drip down my cheeks. I don’t make a sound, but each time it’s happened, Jordan has walked into the bathroom and gotten a roll of toilet paper to wipe my eyes and blow my nose–seeing as we’re poor college students, we don’t have boxes of Kleenex lying around.

My ankle is throbbing with a deep, sickening pain. Each pulse of aching reminds me that this season might not have the fairytale ending I’ve been working toward. Even though I’m now almost guaranteed to win Player of the Year, I’m also guaranteed not to be playing at full health during the conference tournament.

Which might mean no NCAA Tournament. Which might mean no Cinderella story for our little school. Which might mean no WNBA for me. Which might mean I don’t achieve my final dream and the thing I used to fantasize about with my dad.

Ugh, so many potential dashed hopes.

It really is the hope that kills you.

Even though I know my dad wouldn’t care if I quit now and became a street mime, I can’t bear the thought of leaving that last box unchecked. I’ve worked too hard, and I wanted to do it for him.

Thoughts of my dad inevitably turn me into a faucet. He fills my already shattered heart with grief. I wish he was here to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay. No onecould comfort me like he did. Even in the final days of his fight with cancer, he was the one cheering me up. He was telling jokes and getting excited about my future while all I did was wallow in sadness.

The thing that always got me to smile was when he would promise to come back and haunt my house if I wanted him to. Even now, I can’t help but let out a half laugh, half sob when I think about his ghost imitation.

The sound I let out sounds like a wounded animal.

Jordan gives me a sideways glance, eyebrows raised.

I try to glare. I don’t think it has the effect I’m looking for, though, because as he turns back toward the TV, I’m almost positive he’s fighting a smile.

I really love that smile.

But Jordan’s caused me the worst pain in the bowl of suffering stew boiling in my heart, ankle, and every bone in my body. I’ve never had a romantic broken heart before. I’d never been in love, never let someone know me, never broken down the walls. Then he came along.

Frankly, I didn’t even want it, which is what makes me feel so stupid. I didn’t want a relationship, but he charmed me into it. He slowly made me feel safe and cared for and known. It’s the thing I've always, low-key, been terrified of.

Everyone loves “Lucy the basketball player” because she’s perfectly curated. She works hard and wins. She’s a good student, loves the community, and always says the right thing. She’s humble and hides under a veil of perfection.