Ball is Life for Publication

Rebecca Lobo: You can say that again! But you don’t just say things like that, do you? You live it. Tell us about “The TMD Regimen” your coaches and teammates keep raving about, the one you’ve credited for your success.

[smiling] Me: Yeah, uh, folks keep talking about it—“The TMD Regimen” [I chuckle sheepishly.] It’s basically something I’ve been doing since undergrad. Getting up early. Getting in the gym for a couple of hours. Eating a strong breakfast after that first session. Hitting the weight room after breakfast. Watching film during lunch to maximize my time. Then, back to the gym for a few hours, getting up shots, running drills… and finally home for dinner and a good night’s sleep so I can do it all again the next day.

Rebecca Lobo: Just like that? Nothing in between?

Me: Mostly true. I make time to watch SportsCenter… the highlights… and you, of course. [I nod toward Rebecca Lobo.]

Rebecca Lobo: [laughs] Now I’m honored. I’ve officially made it into the TMD Regimen!

Me: Oh, for sure! Watching your show is my way of unwinding.

Rebecca Lobo: And to be the seventh player drafted into the league from an HBCU—that makes your story even more special, right?

[I shake my head.] Me: No, no, no. Eighth. R-Dub was seventh. She went first round.

Rebecca Lobo: Absolutely! Raquel Williams—your superstar teammate!

Me: Yep. And I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for R-Dub. She took me under her wing back in college and really helped me develop into the player I am today—especially mentally. I still can’t believe I’ve gotten the chance to play with her again these last two years. It’s been a blessing.

Rebecca Lobo: Yeah, you two have a strong chemistry on the court.

Me: For sure. Playing with R-Dub feels like second nature. We see the game the same way—know where the other’s gonna be before we even get there. It’s rare to have that kind of connection—makes everything easier when you trust the person beside you.

The slam of my front door shatters the memory on the screen I have sank into. Before I know it, Shayna is standing in front of me. Her flowery perfume floats across my nose and reminds me of happier times between us. Her trench coat is open revealing her hour-glass figure, her hands firmly on her hips.

            “So, this is it, huh? You’re just going to sit here and watch me pack up?”

I press the power button on the remote. The screen fades to black, swallowing my former self. I toss the remote onto the couch beside me, watching it sink into the crevice like it’s slipping out of reach, piece by piece—much like my career and now me and Shayna. I sit up but the only thing I can feel is my throbbing knee. It’s the only thing that matters right now. She clamps her hand dramatically over her nose and mouth like I’m a locker room after double overtime.

“You stink! God! Please get up and go take a shower.”

I sigh, lifting my braced right knee onto the couch—my trophy of failure, displayed for all to see. She stares at it. I can see the sorrow feeling her eyes.

“Tay, baby, this is just a minor setback. You’re going—”

I erupt. “Minor setback? This isn’t a minor setback, Shay! I blew out my fucking knee! This is not an ankle sprain, dammit!” I groan and grab my knee. It feels like the pain I feel in my heart has shot down my leg.

She crouches down in front of me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I’m just trying—” she sighs, then reaches for my hands.

I pull away. I love Shayna but I am done explaining myself. Fighting for her—for us. I just don’t have it in me anymore. Did I ever?

“Listen, I know we both agreed it was better this way. I just thought—” I can see the tears pooling up in her eyes as she stands.

I wish I can just get up and walk away before they fall and shatter this hard-core exterior I am putting up because it’s as fragile as my knee. I was hoping R-Dub would be here by now to avoid all this from happening.

            “Baby—” I pause. “Shayna, you deserve everything you’re asking from me and more. I love you. I do. It’s just—”

She turns her back to me. I know she’s crying. I can hear her muffled sniffles. I reach for my crutches and hobble to my feet, my crutches under my armpits. I reach to rub her arm. She shrugs it away and walks away from me.

            “You should sit,” she sniffles, wiping her face with her hands.

This is Shayna. Always thinking of me. Her focus on me. Waiting for me to meet her halfway.

            “What I have to do to get back into playing shape—to even get back to where I was—” The thought of it is too heavy for me. I move back over to the couch and stumble back down to my dented spot.

Her lips snarl. “I was stupid to think you would change. It’s always going to be the same thing. I’m not asking you to stop being a professional basketball player, Tay. That is your career. But that’s how you always make it seem. Like I gotta be comfortable taking whatever I can get from you.”

“I never asked you to accept it,” I mumble. My head down, too afraid to look her in the face.

“Look at me. Still standing here asking you for something you will never, ever give me!”

I lift my head. I want her to leave now. “I told you what it was from the beginning, Shayna. You said you could handle it. You said your life was just as busy as mine.”

“What fucking world are you living in? You said you loved me. That should change things some—just a little. Damn! But no, right? It’s you and basketball. Everything else comes after that. Fine.” Her voice resolves, “I hope you find a way to fuck that basketball! I hope it keeps you warm at night!”

The only thing she left behind is the scent of her perfume. I don’t move or utter a word while she packs up her things. I hear the door open… then nothing. A pause. A linger. My heart sinks. And then—quietly—the door clicks shut. I stay right where I am and cry myself to sleep.

R-Dub’s voice cuts through the room like a referee’s whistle breaking a play. I sit up and wipe the slob from the side of my face. My eyes feeling glued shut from my dried-up tears. She plops down on the loveseat opposite me and immediately props her foot up on my coffee table like she pays rent here.

“Fuck, you scared me. Can’t knock?”

“I have the key, remember,” she says, dangling it in the air with a smug smile that’s as familiar as my own reflection. She walks over, waving a hand in front of her face dramatically.

“Jesus! When was the last time you took a shower, girl?”

“What do you want?” I sigh.

“You’re the one who asked me to stop by, remember?” she chuckles.

“You’re late. I asked you to be here by two.”

“My bad. Rachel gave me a honey-do list that was as long as a CVS receipt!”

I put my hand on my braced knee. R-Dub’s eyes lock onto it.

Her voice softens like a coach after a tough loss. “Tay, you’ll be back on the court in no time.”

I don’t immediately respond. The silence between us stretches like the quiet before a storm breaks.

“Yeah, in ten to twelve months. Right in the middle of contract negotiations.” I let the bitterness leak out like steam escaping a boiling pot. “This was supposed to be a multi-year deal. What leverage do I have with a busted knee?”

“Tay, come on. All that work you put in—everybody knows it. We wouldn’t have won the ‘chip if you weren’t out there. Stein knows that.” She plants her hands on her hips, stance wide and confident—classic R-Dub, always ready to take a charge.

“Come on, you gotta get up today. You gotta get yo’ ass in the shower.”

She means Elizabeth Stein, our team’s owner. Stein is known as one of the toughest negotiators in the league. She doesn’t care that I helped bring her a championship.

Right now, I’m replaceable. Right now, I’m useless. Right now, I’m a discount. I’m not a star like R-Dub, no matter how much she tries to act like I am. To R-Dub, I’m valuable. To my teammates, I’m valuable. But during negotiations? I’m just a newly repaired knee that’s a bargaining chip. I’m not a max contract. Not me. Not a bench player who barely started making a real name for herself. Yeah, the last two years were great. But now? Now I’m a cracked trophy. A risk. And it feels like my heart’s been ripped out of my chest, leaving a cavity as empty as the gym after a loss.

“Tay!” R-Dub yells, snapping me out of my spiral. “Did you hear a thing I said?”

I shrug and lean over, fishing around between the couch cushions for the remote like it’s the one thing keeping me from unraveling.

“Nah, I’m done with this shit. Come on.” With one leg, there isn’t much fighting back I can do. R-Dub’s strong. She yanks me up and slings my arm around her shoulder. Before I know it, she’s marching me toward the bathroom and closing the door behind me like a coach sending me to the locker room to get my head right.

When I finally emerge, crutches tucked under my arms like they’re just as fed up with me as I am with them. I’m feeling halfway human again. Still in sweats and a t-shirt, but at least I’m clean. I hobble into the kitchen where R-Dub has helped herself to whatever she can find, perched comfortably at my island counter.

“Damn, one hundred percent better. I know you gotta feel better,” she says, popping a carrot into her mouth with the satisfied crunch of a win. She glances at her watch. “I was expecting Shayna to be coming through soon.”

She knows Shayna’s work schedule like she lives here.

“We’re done,” I mumble, the words dropping between us like a missed pass.

“What?” She leans in dramatically, hand cupped around her left ear.

I sigh. “You heard me. She came for the last of her things earlier today.”

“Oh, damn! And I was supposed to play referee, huh? Thanks for the heads up. Glad I missed that shit.” R-Dub pauses like she’s in deep thought. “Wow,” she says, shaking her head. “What was wrong with Shayna? I liked her. She was funny, smart, had her own shit, and she is fine as fuck!”

“Hey, off limits,” I warn, my voice sharp like a warning I don’t feel like repeating.

“Excuse me? I am happily married and committed now.” She’s waving her ring finger in the air.

I stare at her, eyes narrowed, not sold and not pretending to be.

“I’m serious. Once I said, ‘I do,’ that was it for me. No going back.”

I want to believe her. I really do. I was in the wedding. I got choked up at their vows. But R-Dub’s been sneaking around on Rachel since college—and beyond. I almost choked on my drink when she told me she proposed. But like a true friend, I played my part.

“Shayna was good to you, Tay. But another one bites the dust, I guess.” She nudges my arm. “You are turning into a little R-Dub yourself. You don’t chase ‘em, you replace ‘em, huh?” she chuckles.

“Nah, nothing like that. Ball is life.” I pause. “Ball is wife.” Another pause. “That’s how it’s always been.”  

“Mmm-hmm.”

The silence between us says it all, stretching between us like a stage after the curtain falls. I hobble over to my mini wine selection, grab two glasses, pour my favorite Pinot Grigio, and nod at her to come get her glass. The wine glistens amber in the afternoon light that slants through my windows.

“Should you even be drinking right now?” she asks.

“Don’t start with me, R-Dub.” The wine slides down my throat, cool and familiar, a comfort I can still enjoy.

“I won’t. I won’t.” She raises her arms. “Cool, no more talk about wine consumption or Shayna. May she rest in peace.” She crosses herself sarcastically in a fake Hail Mary.

“So let me tell you who I just got off the phone with before I walked in—”  

“I’m not about to go on no joy rides, road trips to the beach, or no shit like that,” I warn, cutting her off like cutting off a thought mid-sentence.

Ever since I tore my ACL, R-Dub’s been popping up with bright ideas about how to get me out of the house. Mostly, I’ve resisted. I must admit, though, the short road trip to her secluded cabin in the woods helped clear my head a little.

“Nope! Nothing like that. This isn’t one of my bright ideas. It’s an amazing opportunity that was handed to me!”

I just stare at her, waiting for her to finish so I can decline. I always say basketball is life, but not being able to play really solidified it for me. Without it, I feel empty, like a basketball that’s lost all its air. Confused, like a player who can’t read the defense. Afraid, like I’m standing at the free-throw line in the final seconds of a championship game, down by one.

“Franklin is hosting a charity basketball tournament and has invited us both to come as their celebratory WNBA guests! It’s a way for us to give back to the school that raised us, show some love to the Lady Panthers, and get you off this couch.”

I roll my eyes, the ceiling suddenly fascinating.

“I know, I know!” She holds up her hands like she’s trying to pause my thoughts. “But you don’t have to play to show up. The team’s gonna be excited just to have you there. Imagine if we had pros show up when we were playing.”

It would’ve been crazy. But I damn sure don’t want to show up with a busted-up knee stuck on the sidelines like an extra in a scene I used to star in.

“This doesn’t fit into my PT. Coach ain’t having that and neither is Jaleesa,” I say, shaking my head. Jaleesa’s my physical therapist. Five feet of nothing with the energy of a giant. She’s excited to be working with me. Said she knew I’d give maximum effort and follow her instructions to the letter. She’s right. Starting with week three instructions.

“Raq, I know you’ve been blessed to never have an injury like this, but I’m in week three! Week three! You know what Jaleesa’s got me doing? I’m just starting on quad sets. Straight leg raises. Baby-ass heel slides. I’m not even on the stationary bike yet. I’m icing three times a day. I’m allowed to ditch the crutches around here, but if I step outside? Brace on, crutches underarm, no exceptions. I can’t even walk my trash to the chute without a full-body checklist.” I can feel the anger rising up in my chest like an emotion I can’t outrun.

Water building in my eyes, threatening to fall like something heavy I’ve been holding way too long. I grab my crutches and hobble out of the kitchen back into the living room, collapsing onto the couch where I feel safe. My knee is on fire. I don’t know if it’s from fast-walking over or all the emotions rushing through me. What the fuck is Raq even thinking? A fucking charity basketball tournament.

Of course she’s following right behind me. “Tay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I see her rub her hand through her hair, a gesture she does when she’s at a loss for words—rare for R-Dub who always has something to say.

“Look, you are a motherfucking WNBA Champion! This is a minor obstacle, Tay. This knee ain’t got nothing on the TMD Regimen.” She smiles, bright like interview lights.

I force a smile back, because I know she believes it. But the truth is, I don’t know if the TMD Regimen works on everything. It built my body into a machine, sure. Got me stronger, faster, sharper than most.

But it didn’t teach me how to rest. How to love. How to be still. I can lift weights until my legs give out—but I never learned how to hold someone without dropping them. The real injury might not be my knee. It might be all the parts of me I’ve never trained to bend without breaking.

“You listening?” she frowns, voice tugging with impatience.

Just like now, Raq has had my back since we had to run a million suicides back at Franklin. Since she kicked my ass over—

Anyway, I can still see it. Franklin’s gym. Lights buzzing overhead like fluorescent lights buzzing above an exam room. Floor slick with our sweat. I’m bent over, hands on my knees, gasping after what feels like the hundredth suicide. Raq jogs past me, not even breathing hard, slaps me upside the back of my head like a big sister, and shouts, “Get your ass up, Tay! Champions don’t quit!”

I wanted to kill her. Instead, I pushed off the floor and chased her down the next line. That’s Raq. Always a step ahead. Always dragging me with her toward something better.

I prop my legs up on the couch, careful with the injured one.

“Yeah, I hear you. Now shut up and bring me some ice,” I say in a tone that is child-like but masks the surrender in my voice.

Franklin Forever

I don’t know how she managed to convince both Coach and Jaleesa that me attending this tournament was a good idea, but it’s R-Dub. They grovel at her feet like rookies meeting their idol. She’s earned this level of respect, though. They’ve been a winning team since she was drafted. Each year getting better and better until she finally dragged them to the pinnacle after two Finals losses.

Some in the sports world even say I was the final missing link that put the team over the top with my “stifling defense and chemistry with R-Dub.” R-Dub proclaims it every chance she gets. I just thank God I’m not afraid to work hard and sacrifice everything to get what I want. Had I quit or allowed other things—people to distract me, I know I wouldn’t have made it long in this league. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even have made it to the league. That’s just the way it is. There are too many players, some even better than me who aren’t picked up by a team—who don’t even get a chance.

It’s been a little over three months since R-Dub first popped up at my place talking about this Franklin tournament. Three months of grinding like sandpaper on raw wood. Three months of pool sessions, straight leg raises, quad sets, and wobbling around my apartment like a baby deer trying to walk across ice. But I stick with it. Jaleesa says I’m ahead of schedule. Coach nods in approval. She knows one thing for sure — I’m going to put in that work. That’s the only reason they agreed to let me go. The rules were simple: Light PT in the pool while I’m there. Keep the brace on if I’m walking long distances. No running, no playing, no being a dumbass. I agree. Barely.

Franklin wanted us for a full week, but hell no. I negotiated it down to a few days. Show my face, shake some hands, sign some autographs, then get the hell back home. Back to Jaleesa, back to rehab.

Since I can’t play in the alumni game, they’re creative about my new position. I’ll be announcing it instead, on the school’s radio station. Apparently, that’s supposed to be “fun” and “low impact” and “great for student engagement,” according to Alumni Affairs. Whatever. The money raised is going toward scholarships for the women’s team, which reminds me that everything can’t just be about my injury even though it’s shattered my world as I know it.

I’m still a WNBA champion and I get to give back to a school and team that gave me everything. I have to focus on that if I want to keep my fragile spirit intact.

Part of the deal is we have to do a post-game press conference for local news outlets and a bunch of students majoring in communications and sports broadcasting. I hate the idea. Hate it. Talking about myself on a mic while smiling and pretending I’m not pissed about life is the last thing I want to do. But R-Dub agreed to do most of the talking.

“I got you, Tay,” she assures me. And I know R-Dub’s word is gold—the one currency I can always count on.

Now here I am, walking across Franklin’s campus for the first time in years. The second my crutch taps the pavement, and I catch a whiff of fresh-cut grass, look at the majestic buildings all around me, and smell the familiar southern cuisine wafting from the café like a warm embrace, I know I’m home. It all hits me like a tidal wave I didn’t see coming—fast, loud, and way too late to stop.

Memories come rushing back—late night walks from the gym, sweaty and sore. Laughing too loud with my teammates in the café. Cramming for exams at the last minute in the library. Sweating bullets because if I don’t pass, I don’t play. Falling in love with the game all over again every time I stepped into the gym. Falling in love with the grind. It’s like no time has passed at all. Franklin wraps around me like an old jersey, worn and familiar, carrying the sweat and triumph of younger days. But I’m a million miles from the girl who first stepped foot here at eighteen, wide-eyed and stubborn, thinking she had it all figured out.

I have a scheduled one o’clock meeting with a current student, Chandon Kilpatrick. My agent already briefed me on how incredible she is — as a freshman she led a campus-wide protest to raise awareness about two women—army veterans, jailed in Kuwait for being Black and lesbian. Damn. My freshman year, I was still hiding who I was, trying to fit in, trying to survive. When I heard she wanted to meet me, I didn’t hesitate. I made sure it happened.

I spot her near the gym entrance, clutching a worn copy of The W Magazine with me and R-Dub on the front after we won the championship. She looks nervous but determined, shoulders squared like she’s preparing for a job interview.

I step toward her, smiling. We shake hands, and I congratulate her right away for her strength and activism. I tell her how proud I am of her. How much reading about what she did inspired me. She looks stunned — like she can’t believe I even know who she is. I share a little about my own time at Franklin. How hard it was being queer for me back then. How much it would’ve meant to have someone like her leading the way.

I tell her I hadn’t heard about Monica Jacobs and Lorraine Cuttleston before, but now that I have, I’m going to lift their names up on my platforms. We need more of that. More visibility. More voices. She grins, real and wide, the kind that warms your chest like a cocoa on a cold day.  

I sign the magazine she’s been clutching the whole time. We snap a selfie together, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. I tell her I’m posting it — a proud Franklinite moment. It’s a bright spot in a day already heavy with memories. A reminder that even when you’re just trying to keep your head above water, somebody’s out there watching. Somebody’s out there believing they can go even harder because of you.

Melony’s Interlude

The closer I get to the gym, the heavier my legs feel. It’s not the brace. It’s the memories. Every step drags me deeper into the past. Late-night workouts. Early morning suicides. Coach Reyes’s voice barking at us like our lives depended on every sprint.

Franklin’s gym is exactly the same. The big double doors. The faded championship banners clinging to the rafters next to the newest one we won in R-Dub’s senior year. The polished hardwood floor that looks like it’s been loved and hated equally. I step inside and the smell hits me — sweat, floor polish, and something faintly metallic — the smell of work. The smell of becoming.

The gym is buzzing already. Sneakers squeak against polished hardwood like exclamation points. Basketballs thump in rhythmic percussion. Coaches’ whistles pierce the air. Students and fans fill the stands in a slow, excited wave, their chatter rising to the rafters like steam. I limp along the sidelines, head down, hoping not to draw too much attention.

The alumni game is the main event today. R-Dub, of course, is the headliner. She’s in full uniform, moving like she’s still twenty years old — laughing, chest-bumping old teammates, spinning the ball on her finger for the cameras. The crowd loves her. The students love her. The coaches love her. And they should. She’s a fucking legend here.

Me? I’m tucked away at the announcer’s table near midcourt, headset slipping down over my ears, the foam padding warm against my skin. A thick game program opens in front of me, its glossy pages cool beneath my fingertips, smelling faintly of fresh ink. Coaches and teammates come over to talk to me, hug me, reminisce, laugh. I’m struggling, though. I feel empty. Announcer. Not player. Not star. Not even sideshow. I’m background noise. I try to tell myself it’s fine. That it doesn’t matter. That I’m here, showing support, giving back.

But there’s a sour taste in the back of my throat that won’t go away. I should be out there. I should be high-fiving teammates, running plays, giving the crowd something to cheer about. Instead, I’m smiling tight into a microphone, making cheesy commentary about players I know, some faculty I remember, and most players I barely know, trying not to think about the knee brace hidden under my jeans.

I begin to loosen up when I realize WFRNK’s longtime host, DJ Smooth — a Franklin legend who calls all the games — and Kelly Kickback — an intern with the loudest laugh on campus — are super excited to have me hosting with them. They’re so gracious and welcoming. And neither of them asks me about my knee or my injury, like I feared. They’re bringing up memories of R-Dub’s playing days at Franklin — and some of mine. We’re laughing and having a good time watching the game like we’re old friends. They help ease my tension and I’m feeling more relaxed.

The game flashes by like watching memories that no longer belong to me. R-Dub dominates, of course. Even half her effort and intensity are too much for the current players. She’s still quick, still deadly with the ball in her hands. She’s good at this — good at shining and making everyone around her feel like they’re part of it, even when they’re not. When the buzzer sounds, the crowd explodes into cheers like a dam breaking. Flashbulbs pop like summer lightning. Students storm the court in a wave of bodies and excitement. R-Dub lifts a trophy over her head like it weighs nothing—just another piece of hardware for her collection. And me? She pulls me from behind the announcer’s table as quick as I can unclip my headset and remove it from my head. I’m up right alongside her in all the pictures, smiling, and signing autographs.

The post-game press conference is set up in a side room off the gym. I wasn’t expecting it to be the same professional set up as if we’d just played a real game and full press was in the room. But to my surprise it is. Real banners. Spotlights. Pristine microphones posted in front of two chairs waiting for me and R-Dub to catch every word, every breath, every whisper. Nostalgia runs over me like an emotion you can’t outrun. Rows of folding chairs already filled with local media and students clutching notepads and recorders. They have rolled out the red carpet for us and I feel like a star being welcomed home to celebrate my accomplishments. It makes my stomach twist. Half excitement. Half pure terror.

R-Dub and I are led to a long table at the front. She drops into her seat like she owns it, grinning wide, nodding at the cameras. I sit stiffly beside her, my knee aching like a ticking clock, my heart thudding against my ribs. I adjust my mic three times even though it doesn’t need fixing. I laugh too loud at R-Dub’s jokes, trying to drown out the static building in my chest.

Stick to the plan. Smile, nod, make it through. Get back to rehabbing. I think to myself. Until a girl with a Franklin badge steps forward, tape recorder in hand. Corey. She’s tall, brown skin glowing under the spotlights, Afro in full bloom like Pam Grier. Her presence demands the room’s attention like a star player stepping onto the court.

“Corey Michaels, Black Student Union President here at Franklin,” she says, voice confident and steady. “This question is for both of you. As two of the few players to make it from an HBCU into the WNBA, what does that responsibility mean to you? And how important is it to provide access for more players from HBCUs to enter the league?”

The room stills, the silence heavy as a held breath. The real question. R-Dub leans in first, smiling like she’s been waiting for this.

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” she says.” It starts at the top. Investment in facilities, media visibility. We can’t keep treating HBCUs like second-class programs. The talent’s here. It’s always been here. Now it’s time for the world to catch up.”

I clear my throat, leaning in too.

“We stand on the shoulders of players who never got this shot,” I say. “It’s about visibility. It’s about recognizing that greatness comes from HBCUs.”

Corey nods, pride shining in her eyes. She tucks her recorder away, satisfied. The room feels a little lighter. The applause feels real. For a second, I let myself breathe.

Until a figure steps out from the crowd, cell phone in hand pointing in our direction. Something about the posture is familiar. Too familiar. Still. Too still. The low hum of the room seems to hush itself, like even the walls are holding their breath. At first, my brain doesn’t catch up. But my body does. And then I see her. 

Melony.

First, my knee locks under the table, jolting pain up my leg like an electric current. Then my throat goes dry so fast it feels like I’m swallowing sand. I try to steady myself, but my fingers slip, numb against the cool surface of the table, and for a second, I swear the whole room tilts like my chair’s about to tip backward and dump me into everything I thought I buried.

Her hair’s different now — cut close to her scalp, the lines of her face sharper, more defined like a sculpture refined by time. Her eyes are deeper somehow. Pulling and quiet, like they’re hiding a whole ocean I’ll never reach. There’s a steadiness about her, a calm I don’t recognize. Gone is the girl who used to light up when she saw me walk into a room. She looks…unreachable. Seeing her again feels like a punch I couldn’t brace for. No way to brace. Just full-body impact.

“Do you keep in touch with anyone from Franklin besides your amazing teammate, Raquel?” Her voice is smooth, controlled. Like it doesn’t cost her anything to ask.

It hits harder than I’m ready for. I open my mouth. Nothing. Instead, I hear her voice from that night: You have to be willing to meet me in the middle. But I wasn’t.

R-Dub bumps my elbow under the table — not gentle, not subtle.

“Breathe, Tay,” she whispers. Her lips barely crack.

I force a breath past the boulder in my chest. But it’s too late.

Melony’s already in my head, and I’m just sitting here staring at her like I’m twenty again and don’t know what the hell to say.

Stay tuned…