Page 34 of Mending Hearts
Rosa nudges my knee with her foot. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m watching.”
She snorts. “You always watch like it’s church.”
I don’t correct her. This has always been a kind of ritual. One I never told Ollie about because it felt too intimate to admit. But even after everything, even after eight years of distance and silence and hurt, I still tune in. Still sit on whatever couch Ihappen to have and watch him play like the world narrows down to hardwood and movement.
The broadcast cuts to player introductions, and there he is. Ollie Marshall. Captain.
His name booms through the arena, the crowd surging to its feet. The camera catches him mid-stride, jaw set, eyes focused, that familiar calm intensity settling over his face like armor.
My heart misfires. Not a flutter. Not a fond ache. A full-body jolt, like someone plugged me into an outlet.
I exhale slowly through my nose, grounding myself the way I learned in therapy.Name five things you can see. Four you can feel. Three you can hear.
I can see Ollie on the screen. I can feel the couch under my hands. I can hear Rosa’s fork scraping lightly against her plate.
Still—it doesn’t help.
“Wow,” Rosa says, impressed. “He looks good.”
I swallow. “He always does.”
She shoots me a look. “You’re biased.”
“Objectively,” I reply, “he’s ridiculous.”
She hums, watching the screen. “Captain again?”
“Yeah.”
There’s pride there. I don’t fight it. I don’t even try to bury it.
I was proud the first time they gave him the armband. Proud in a way that made my chest hurt because I wasn’t supposed to feel that way about someone who wasn’t mine anymore.
The game tips off.
Ollie moves like he always has—decisive, controlled, like the court is a map he memorized years ago. He calls plays with subtle gestures, voice cutting through the noise when needed. He drives, pivots, passes with precision that looks effortless until you understand how much work it takes to make it look that way.
“He’s on fire,” Rosa says midway through the first quarter.
“Mm,” I murmur.
I follow every movement without meaning to. The way he sets his feet. The way he scans the court before committing. The way he absorbs contact and keeps going like pain is just another variable to manage.
It makes my throat thicken, because I know how much that body has taken over the years. I also know how stubborn he is, and that’s because I know him, even after all this time.
The commentators gush about leadership, experience, longevity. About how Marshall has become the spine of the team, how the locker room revolves around him. I feel that old familiar mix of pride and grief twist together in my chest.
During a time-out, the camera cuts to a close-up of Ollie on the bench. Sweat darkens his hair at the temples. He leans forward, elbows on knees, listening intently as the coach talks. He looks… steady, grounded.
Alive.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I ignore it on instinct. Rosa notices.
“You’re allowed to have a life while watching basketball,” she says.
“I do,” I lie.
