Page 90 of Hard to Love

Finn: Congrats on making it to the semifinals. It was a great match.

I stare at the text, my pulse pounding, and my smile widening.

Me: Thank you. How are you?

Finn: Good. Busy. Just working. You look great out there.

A million responses fly through my mind. I miss you. I love you. I want to see you. But I type none of them because as much as I want to get my hopes up, I can’t. This is a simple text after a week of not talking to him, not a declaration of love.

Me: Thank you. Off to the press circus now. Thanks for texting.

My sigh is audible as I stare at his words, missing him terribly.

FINN

“OKAY. SO READ THAT PARAGRAPH again. I need you to understand the parameters of this endorsement deal,” I say to Moni, a WNBA star, as I click on the television in my office. “I’ll wait while you do.”

Stevie’s semifinals match coverage should be starting any moment, and I don’t want to miss it.

I take a seat and go to square up some loose-leaf papers on my desk when Stevie comes onto the screen. She’s warming up, hitting a few balls over the net. Right before the camera pans off her, she looks at it, puts her hand over her heart, and taps three times.

I grab my remote and rewind the broadcast, needing to see it again. Did she . . . was that for me?

If so, I need to make sure she’s telling me what I want to hear. See. That she feels the same way about me that I do her.

You showed him that hearts matter. That knowing someone loves you matters.

And it’s there. Plain as day. The three taps.

She wants me to know that she loves me, and that I matter to her. I stand up. I sit down. I rewind it to see it again as adrenaline races through my veins.

She fucking loves me.

But how do I show her the same thing? How do I make sure she knows that her heart matters too?

STEVIE

WHEN I COLLAPSE ONTO THE massage table, my body is exhausted and my morale is for shit.

“I don’t know what the big deal is. You had a bad match. You still won, so let’s watch the tapes, see what we can fix, and be ready for the finals.”

I close my eyes and ignore Kellen. I know he means well—it seems everyone does these days—but he’s also never been my coach when I’ve done poorly. He doesn’t realize that I don’t need to be coddled—Christ, do I not need to be coddled—but rather I need to be told that yes, I did play like shit.

“Go away, Kell,” I mumble, needing space and time to be grumpy.

My form sucked. I was late going to the right when the ball was hit there. My serve was off. Yes, I won, but there is no way in hell I’m going to beat Martina Hauerr in the finals playing like this.

It’s my father’s voice I’m missing right now. His strong but valid criticisms. His unwanted critiques. His scant praise that made me want to work hard in order to get more of it.

I lie face down and wait for Angel, the masseuse, to ease the tension and soreness in my muscles before I jump into the ice bath.

But it’s only then with my face in the weird hole thing on the massage table that I shut my eyes and allow myself to come down from the high from winning . . . and the pressure from not performing up to par.

It’s then that the tears well and fall onto the floor beneath me.

He should be here. My father. He should be in the chair opposite me telling me what I need to work on before the next match. I should hear his baritone laugh as he scrolls through social media and reads the ridiculous comments about the match. I should feel his kiss on the back of my head and his soft words, “I’m proud of you,” before he leaves the room to go review the tapes before me.

Dad, I need you here with me. It’s hard. Everything is so different without you here sitting in those seats, your presence willing me to win. I miss you so much.