By the time I walk out of the gym, my hair is damp, my body is pleasantly sore, and the sky is bleeding into early evening. Miguel’s truck sits in its usual spot by the curb. He leans against the hood, scroll-squinting at something on his phone. When he looks up and sees me, his whole face softens and lights up.
“Hey, star player,” he says when I get close enough. “You look less like death.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You look like you just finished a Nike commercial.”
He smirks. “That’s just sweat and poverty, baby.”
I laugh, the sound coming out looser than I expect. He reaches out, hooks a finger in my hoodie drawstring, and pulls me in to kiss my forehead.
We climb into the truck. The cab fills with the usual mix of his cologne and old leather and faint sawdust. He pulls out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console where my fingers immediately gravitate.
“So?” he says. “How was Dr. Kaur? She yell at you for not using your coping skills?”
“She did not yell,” I say, then sigh. “She… listened. A lot. Told me she’s proud of me. Which is, like, rude. Who gave her that right?”
He smiles. “I did. In my head.”
I huff. “She wants to do a joint session at some point. With you.”
His eyebrows rise. “Yeah?”
“If you’re okay with it,” I add quickly. “She said not now. Later. When we don’t feel like we’re one question away from spontaneously combusting.”
He nods slowly. “I’m okay with that,” he says. “Terrified, but okay.”
“Same,” I admit.
We stop at a red light and he glances over at me. “What else did she say?”
I stare at our hands. “That I feel guilty about you getting therapy is… understandable but not proof that I’m toxic.” I swallow. “That you going is a sign you want to stay. Not that I broke you.”
“Smart lady.”
“She also said,” I add, “that if she thought this was irreparably fucked up, she’d tell me. Not those words, but… you know.”
“And?” he asks carefully.
“And she hasn’t,” I say. “She has concerns. Obviously. But she doesn’t think we’re doomed.”
He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “High praise.”
“Shut up,” I say, but I’m smiling.
The light turns green and he drives.
“My dad texted.”
Miguel’s jaw flexes. “Yeah? What’d he have to say?”
I fish my phone out and unlock it. The screen shows the afternoon’s message.
Dad
I really am proud of you for how you played in Reno. And for calling me back yesterday. I’d like to speak with Miguel sometime soon. Not to interrogate him. To listen. We’ll talk more this weekend. Get some rest. You’ve got another away game coming and you need to be at your best.
Miguel reads it at the next red light. His mouth flattens, but not in the way I expected.
“‘Not to interrogate him,’” he reads. “Points for self-awareness, I guess.”
