The way I fought moving in with him until the universe itself got tired of us carrying duffels between athlete dorms and semi-communal showers.
The way he waited even there too, letting me come to it in my own time.
The Adidas campaign.
The swimsuit shoot on a black-sand beach where the photographer kept saying “stronger, stronger, stronger,” and I didn’t have to fake a thing.
The checks I deposited into my own account.
The plane rides.
The tunnel after his first Final Four loss—to the tunnel kiss when they won the National Championship senior year.
The corridor after my playoff loss.
The dance.
The sea.
The way he still looks at me like the rest of the world is just scenery around the fact that I exist. They way he roared my name when we won nationals my junior year.
I swing.
The ball screams cross-court and hits paint.
The line judge’s flag stays down.
The whistle sounds.
Point.
The arena detonates.
My teammates crash into me so hard my teeth click. One of them is screaming in my ear. Another is crying already. We’re up match point and the whole world has become one giant pulse.
I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll choke.
Back to the line.
Tap.
Tap.
My shoulders are on fire now.
My thighs are shaking.
My lungs are glass.
Across the net, every face on the other side looks strained and beautiful and desperate.
Olympic finals do that. They strip everyone down until all that’s left is nerve and technique.
The whistle goes again.
I serve.
They pass better this time.
