It’s the kind that sneaks up on you when you meet someone and suddenly the space you didn’t know was empty starts to feel… noticed. Like maybe there’s room again. Like maybe the thing you’ve been missing hasn’t been lost after all.
The thought makes me nervous. But as I keep walking, breathing in the warmth of the morning, I let myself wonder if maybe it’s time.
Which is quite the jump, considering I have no idea what last night was even about. Neither of us confirmed it was a date. It was simply us spending time together. Me showing him around.
The way he opened up about that night with his team. His injury and the pressure to come back too soon. Colson didn’t just open up but he started telling me secrets. Surprising, considering getting him to share anything real about himself has always been a struggle.
I’ve not talked about my ACL injury longer than I can remember. All the locals know the story, there wasn’t anything else to tell. My time as an up-and-coming basketball player is so far in the rear-view mirror that it felt like a completely different life.
Do I miss being part of a team? Sometimes. I think it’s the feeling of belonging, being a piece of something bigger and working toward a shared goal. Spending time with people who challenged me, pushed me, made me better.
Tearing my ACL ended my basketball career. It also quietly unraveled most of the friendships that came with it. I still keep in touch with a few former teammates, but it isn’t the same. Without the game, the connection thinned.
I came back to Golden Harbor because it felt safe. Like the beach knew me—like it could help soothe the burns left behind by the fallout. I know, deep down, that my next step probably isn’t here. But every time I think too hard about what comes next, my stomach twists in on itself.
There’s a time and place to face that. This isn’t it.
Right now, I need to figure out how to get Colson to agree to help coach the summer tournament.
I started it last year, mostly as an experiment, and it turned into something better than I could have ever imagined. I reached out to a handful of rec centers within a few hours of mine and pitched a basketball tournament. Each center brings teams for three age groups, and we run small brackets for each one.
Last summer it was hosted about thirty minutes away. This year, it’s here—in Golden Harbor.
Colson has no idea this is a thing. I feel a little guilty springing it on him now, but if I’d told him upfront, there’s no chance he would’ve agreed. Honestly, the commitment alone might’ve been enough for him to say no to helping at all.
I need teams confirmed. I need coaches. I need backup plans.
So I add one item to the top of my to-do list:
Get Colson to say yes.
nineteen
Colson
I’monaladderstenciling house numbers above the garage while I think about the third note tucked into the mailbox.
MAIL HARD TO DELIVER. PLEASE FIX VISIBILITY.
I snort under my breath. Like the other two weren’t clear enough. How much mail am I even getting here?
I’m situating the stencils, making sure they’re straight, before I grab the onyx paint. I step down a rung, tilt my head, then adjust the stencil by half an inch. Can’t really screw this up without a ton of cleanup so taking my time seems like the move.
I’m trying to be annoyed at the ask for the address numbers to be visible, but honestly, it gives me something to do. A distraction. So I’m not running through the same thing over and over again.
Last night.
Sadie, sitting on the beach with the sunset painting the sky, reflecting into the water. The way she listened. The way she didn’t rush me when I started talking. How easy it felt to open my mouth and not regret it immediately after.
She was gorgeous. Not in a trying-to-be way. In a grounded, unguarded way that made it hard to look away once you noticed. It’s not the first time I caught myself staring, but it was the first time it was only the two of us for a while.
I climb back up the ladder, happy with the stencil placement, and set the small can of black paint and paintbrush within reach. Carefully, I dip the brush and start filling in the stencil.
I’d rested my head against hers, made it okay for us to be like that. That alone feels dangerous to think about.
Sadie Becker.I won’t pretend I didn’t Google that name last night and read a ridiculous amount of news articles, even watched some highlights. Fuck, she was a special kind of player. One that could’ve made a difference for the sport. My chest squeezes when I think about how an injury, a fluke, took her out with no whisper of a warning.
My shoulder feels really good today, serving as a reminder of how I’m still capable. This will fully heal and I could come back to the court. To the game.
