The Girlfriend Game by Sierra Hill
Thirty-Three
Zeke
Although I’m basically running on fumes, depleted of all energy I had when I began the game, I’m on a high as I flop down on the chair on the sidelines. I accept the bottled sports drink and a towel from the team’s equipment manager and watch my teammates do their thing after I’ve tapped out of the game with sixteen points, ten rebounds, and four assists.
Not too shabby for a veteran player with jetlag. But, thankfully, my body is in the best shape it’s ever been after a summer of regular workouts, a healthy diet, no booze, and a plethora of amazing sex with Kendall. Which means I’m playing in top form in tonight’s game and I’m off to a fan-fucking-tastic start of my eleventh season in the league.
The team and coaching staff are obviously impressed with my work, and I’ve been unstoppable against the French team tonight.
“Dayum, Forester. Who knew, for an old guy, you’d still have the juice?” Trenton Ashford crows at my side, thumping me on my sweaty shoulder with enthusiasm.
I give him a glare that says to shut the fuck up, but it has no bite. He’s just a kid with a lot of hot air in him and no court time to speak of. But it’s nice to know I’ve still got it and it’s noticed by the rookies.
Tipping my chin up, I give him a sly smirk. “Watch and learn, rookie. Until that day comes, you best avoid the smack talk unless you have something to back it up with.”
Trenton throws his head back in laughter and then flexes. “Oh, I can back it up, old man. Don’t you worry.”
I roll my eyes. “We’ll see about that.”
Coach Green takes the opportunity to call a timeout and we all huddle around to listen to his instructions.
“Carch, you’re leaving your man open. He’s scored three out of four times on you after he passed you center court.” Coach lifts his eyes and pins me with a hard stare. “Forester, get out there and take him down. Get on that shit and stick to him like glue.”
We break on the whistle, and I head back out to the court where I post up against the seven-foot Frenchman, Claude Badeaux. We’ve nicknamed him Badass because he is one tough motherfucker. What he’s lacking in speed, he makes up for with his size and strength. And he’s notorious for dirty play, taking down a number of guys with an elbow to their nose or head.
But I’m on fire tonight and unconcerned over his lanky limbs. I’m ready to crush him.
Carver is on the sidelines to inbound the pass. I compete with Claude, swinging my arms out wide as we tangle and tussle. Carver fakes left toward Alan, and I sidestep Claude as Carver throws the ball toward me with the speed of a bullet.
Catching it with one hand mid-air, I spin and dribble it down court toward the goalpost, waiting for the team to get in position for our play. Claude’s defense is strong, but I outmaneuver him, spinning on my heels and shooting the ball off to Carver who’s at the three-point line to the side of the basket. He pump-fakes like he’s going to take the shot, as I run into the paint and he alley-oops the ball skyward. I take a gigantic step and jump in the air, slam dunking the ball into the hoop.
It’s a phenomenal feeling and with two minutes left in the game, I rush back down the court to this time defend Claude.
The French team’s guard dribbles the ball back down the court, setting up the play and calling out to his team. From nowhere, Carver sneaks past him and steals the ball out of his hands. Left wide open, Carver dribbles down the court and makes a layup that ends the game with a win.
Although it’s only a scrimmage game and means nothing for our season’s stat boards, it’s the first game we’ve won this season. With the numbers I posted tonight, I’m riding high on this win.
The team celebrates mid- court, the guys on the bench rushing out and doing a round of high-fives and hugs. We cordially congratulate our French opponents and head back to the locker room.
“Killer game out there, Edwards,” I commend Carver as we strip off our sweaty jerseys in preparation for showers and then press time.
Carver gives a hoot of agreement. “Fuck, this season is off to a great start. Plus, Logan and I just found out the sex of the baby today. I’m so fucking stoked.”
I grab my products from the locker and pick up a towel on my way to the showers, turning to look behind me. “Well? What is it?”
The biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen on a grown man appears across Carver’s face, the pure joy evident in the happiness he feels. “It’s a girl. We’re gonna have a baby girl!”
A chorus of whoops and hollers reverberates through the tiled locker room as everyone in a one-mile radius overhears Carver’s announcement.
I stand under the spray, enjoying the heavy stream of hot water cascading down my back, feeling happy for my friend, but unable to comprehend the level of enthusiasm Carver feels over this news. It’s hard to empathize or put myself in his shoes when I’ve never been in that situation. Nor have I wanted to be. I’m sure it’s an emotion most guys would feel, but I can’t seem to relate to it.
I’ve known the highs and lows of playing basketball. The thrill of winning a championship and being named MVP and holding up that trophy. I also know the devastating losses and discouragement of working so hard to win, just to end up losing it a few points short.
I also can attest to the debilitating and crippling anxiety that nearly drowned me and turned me into a shell of myself.
But I can’t relate to the joy of finding out the sex of a baby. That doesn’t stop me from congratulating my friend and sharing in his joy because that’s what friends do.
“Congrats, man. I’m so happy for you and Logan!” I slap a pat on his back after we’re showered and dressed. “The four of us will have to celebrate when we get back home to our ladies.”
Later, when I’m back in my hotel room after team dinner, I text Kendall, figuring she should be wrapped up for the day. If not by now, in an hour or so. She’s the first person I think of when I wake and the last voice I want to hear before bed. It’s lonely not sharing my bed with her on this trip and I want her to know that I’m thinking of her.
Her text response doesn’t come for another two hours. I was antsy while I waited, flipping through my Netflix account trying to shift my attention elsewhere until I give up and check in on my emails and social media accounts. Earlier today, when the guys and I were out doing touristy stuff, I’d posted an Instagram photo of me doing what looked like holding the Eiffel Tower in my hands. I captioned it, “The City of Light in the palm of my hands.” Now, fourteen hours later, it has over 10,000 likes and 3,700 comments.
I’ve learned a valuable lesson, though, through my continued therapy. For someone like me who already struggles with my self-esteem and a man whose entire happiness was based upon how well I succeeded in the game of basketball, the affirmation received from social media interactions and other forms of artificial endorphin-raising is an illusion and a drug. Social media has been linked to diminished happiness, increased depression and anxiety, and increased suicide rates. Keeping a healthy balance in my personal and social interactions is relative to my overall mental health.
I’d fallen asleep before I got a response from Kendall, but the ping of her message jars me awake. I grin, in hopes she’ll agree to my dirty request to video chat. I scoot up to the headboard and run a hand through my hair. We’ve only been apart for a week, but I’ve missed her more than I ever imagined missing anyone.
I crave her in a way an addict craves a fix of their drug of choice.
Hot Doc: I’m glad you’re enjoying your time back on the court. I’m so proud of you, Zeke, for all the work you’ve done to get there and the progress you’ve made personally on your mental health recovery.
Hmm. Not as sexy as I would’ve liked to have seen.
I prop up the bed pillows and hope for something more to come. Something that doesn’t sound like she wrote it from a therapist’s position, but from the woman who is hot for me and misses me the same way I miss her.
The second text has some potential.
Hot Doc: Zeke, we need to talk. Are you alone right now?
At first, an elicit thrill zips down my spine and straight to my cock because she asked me if I’m alone, which can only mean one thing, right? My head fills with all sorts of naughty imagery of the two of us getting each other off over the phone.
Then I read it once more and the world seems to drop out from underneath me.
That high I just experienced? Gone. It vanished the moment I reread the “we need to talk” reference.
That phrase only ever means one thing. When a woman says, “we need to talk,” it isn’t about her favorite sex position or how much she loves your cock.
It fills me with dread. Suddenly, all the energy that coursed through my body earlier after the team win has been replaced with fear. I’m a glutton for punishment, though, and I want to see her. To hear her voice. So I respond with a “Yes.”
Worry forms a knot in my stomach that churns and tumbles. The phone rings with the incoming call in my hand.
I stare at it like it’s a scorpion ready to strike. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I answer.
“Hi,” she says, the sound of her voice tapping into my memory bank, dislodging every moment I’ve had with her since our first meeting.
“Hey, baby. I miss you. Is everything okay?”
Without preamble, Kendall gets straight to the point, the sharpness of her words cutting me like a knife deep into my heart.
“Zeke, I’m sorry to do this over the phone while there’s thousands of miles between us, but this past week has made it abundantly clear to me that I am not someone who can live this lifestyle. I just can’t do it.”
A lump forms in the back of my throat and my words come out in a rushed croak. “What lifestyle? What do you mean, Kendall? I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Things were going so well before…”
She sighs like it costs her to explain. I’ve never heard her speak in this manner before. So emphatic and serious with no room for negotiation or crack where I can slip in and break down this wall of resistance.
“Your lifestyle, Zeke. The long absences. The constant travel. A demanding schedule. I’m lonely. It’s unfair to me. I want a partner who is here with me. I’ve been alone my entire adult life. Why would I want someone who makes me feel lonelier now than I am when I’m single?”
Her words are harsh and hit me where it hurts. Sadly, I can’t argue with her logic because it’s true. When you’re with a professional athlete, there are times when you’ll always come in second. It’s a competition between the career and home, dueling it out for your time. Having both and handling both well is a feat only a few can make work. Like Carver and Logan.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, working to find my breath, trying to center myself as the waves of anxiety begin crashing over me, the sensation almost suffocating.
“Please, Kendall, let’s talk this through. I understand your point, I do. And I’m sorry you feel that way right now. But I don’t want to lose you, baby. I love you. We can work through this. I promise.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and fold my chest forward, digging my elbows into my knee, drawing in deep breaths to stave off the impending panic attack.
Kendall’s silence is loud, telling me exactly what her answer will be. She’s already made up her mind. This wasn’t up for debate. She doesn’t want me anymore.
My anger rises in a flash, a dormant flame flickering underneath the surface that was just doused with gasoline and given a spark, setting off an explosion.
“Fuck!” I yell, my hands shaking with the intensity of the emotions waging war inside me.
“I’m sorry, Zeke. I do love you and I hope you love me enough to see things from my side. I truly wish things were different, but I want a partner who will be here with me through it all, no matter what it is. Not just a few days a month, or a few phone calls or video chats a week. I need and deserve that. Please understand, Zeke. It’s not you, it’s the situation. I do wish things there different.”
Different.
It’s not about me.It’s about Kendall’s needs and how my career messes with that dynamic.
“Kendall, you once asked me what I loved about basketball. And I told you then. But I don’t love everything or every aspect of it. There are things I hate, but I deal with them.” I tug at my beard roughly, trying valiantly to make my point to the smartest woman I know. “Don’t you think the same applies with our relationship? There will always be things we have to deal with that are par for the course. It’s the love that keeps us fighting for each other. Don’t give up on us.”
Her voice is quiet and introspective when she finally speaks again. “The difference, Zeke, is that this is a hard limit for me. It’s not something I’m willing to deal with or put up with. I can’t and I won’t. I’m sorry, Zeke. Please know I do love you, but I need you to let me go.”