He rubs his chin like he’s trying to stretch out the muscles, or see if he can feel the lines from said scowl. He should know better; those kinds of lines are invisible and run through your soul.
I knew it before, but Colson standing here in front of me proves it: he’s in pain. Something we all are too familiar with in one way or another. It makes me want to wrap him up, pull him close to me, but that would be wildly inappropriate, so I don’t.
I have to give it to anyone who wants to try. And right now, Colson Burke is doing just that.
I tip my head to him and he smiles back at me. Fuck. It’s almost full, like he really means it, and I swear it steals the air from my lungs. Colson Burke’s smile is even more perfect than his scowl—but I don’t dare tell him that.
"You’re welcome. If there’s anything I can help with, in regards to the scowling, let me know.”
He nods in a way that ends the conversation.
I walk out to the gym, needing to get things ready for the day. Standing next to the rack of basketballs, I start testing them, seeing which ones need air. Colson sees what I’m doing; when I get one that’s a tiny bit flat, I pass it to him, and he pumps it up.
It’s comfortable silence as we work through the tasks before the kids get there. We turn the fans on and get the fresh air blowing in, fill up the water coolers with ice, and get some cones out for drills.
“You hanging out today?” I ask as we get dangerously close to the early birds getting dropped off.
“If that’s okay, I’d like to.” Colson’s voice is smaller than I expected.
I nod and reply, “You’re always welcome here. The kids love having you.”
He lights up a bit when I mention the kids. It’s true. He’s only been a few times, but when they see Colson, the energy is different—in a good way. Part of me wonders if they’re trying to crack him, see the goofy side of the NBA player who showed up for their summer program.
I choose to ignore the piece of myself that’s screaming how the kids aren’t the only ones. I also like having him here. Obviously, it’s easier to do this with more than one adult. But it’s a lie to say that’s the only thing.
It’s Colson. There’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it. And I’m happy to have him around until I figure it out.
Tonightisoneofthose where the clock moves like it’s wading through mud. Slow. Dragging. It’s the kind of night which reminds me that it’s just me and comes with a whole bunch of loneliness. During the day, it’s the kids, the rec center, keeping all those things smooth and moving. But now that I’m home, it feels a bit empty.
I pour myself a glass of cherry wine from one of my favorite Michigan vineyards and open my laptop. Staring at the search bar, I don’t even know what to enter. After my fingers hover over the keys for an embarrassingly long time, I finally type in “small business ideas”.
I end up in a flow of reading stories about people who needed a change, had an idea, and brought it to fruition. Some people opened bookstores, started a food truck, or a storefront with something they made that they decided to sell.
Maybe if I read all these success stories, it’ll spark the creativity I’ve been searching for. I love running the rec center, truly. I make enough to live comfortably in one of my favorite places, and that’s not nothing.
I love living somewhere as tight knit as Golden Harbor. As much as I love summer, fall is a close second. Not because of the gorgeous colors and chilly air off the lake, but that’s when I get to jump into other businesses whenever they need help. Bartender? Hostess? Barista? All of those things are possible. It’s like beautiful chaos and opportunity.
But it’s not enough—and I’m not surprised.
Ever since the fallout with Nick, since my life blew up right in front of me, I knew this season would come. The one where I’d have to stop and ask myself what’s next.
What Nick took, what’s still hard to put into words, was the carefully built vision of our life together. We asked the hard questions. Made real compromises. Bent and adjusted in ways meant to keep both of us happy.
When something like that collapses without warning, when there’s nothing you can do to stop it, it’s jarring. Devastating.
So I went into survival mode. Built a life one piece at a time. The goal was simple: don’t get ahead of yourself. Take on what you can. Function. Reevaluate when you have the energy.
I did the same thing after I tore my ACL. The dream of playing in the WNBA was gone in a second. Well, a lengthy recovery simply proved I wasn’t the same player with the same type of ceiling. I was damaged goods and I knew I’d never make it back to the court the same way.
Even now, anxiety hums under my skin, my stomach flipping if I sit with it too long. I used to bargain with myself—if I hadn’t torn my ACL, I never would’ve met Nick, never would’ve had that life.
But that argument doesn’t bring much comfort anymore. Because the man I loved doesn’t exist now. At least, not the version of him I’d built my future around.
I close the laptop and set it on the coffee table, the screen going dark. My apartment is quiet in the way it always is. Just me, the low hum of the refrigerator, the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
There’s a sadness which settles in when I’m alone like this and my brain is searching for answers. Not heavy enough to knock the air from my lungs, but persistent. The kind that slips in when no one’s watching. I don’t cry. I sit with it, letting it take up the space it needs.
I think about all the versions of my life I once planned so carefully. How certain I was. How sure I felt. Now everything ahead feels grayed out. Undefined. And that scares me more than I like to admit.
