Page 95 of Blitz

Put one foot in front of the other. Finish this movie. Go to sleep. Stay in bed all day tomorrow, because I fucking need it, and it’s Sunday, and I have nothing better to do. And then first thing Monday morning, call student counseling services. Get help.

I don’t know what the future will look like, but I’ve got a plan. That will have to be enough.

I make Barrett come to Jamal’s game with me. He’s originally from the greater Boston area, from a small suburb to the northwest of the city, so he knows his way around the city pretty well. This is only the third time I get to see my big brother play professional ball. He flew us all out to Detroit for his first game, where he got a whole twelve minutes of playing time in a preseason exhibition game. He had us out for another game over my winter break.

It’s kind of cool, knowing the kid who used to tease me and protect me from bullies in equal measure is now a professional basketball player. The guy who was there for me whenever I needed him, the big brother I turned to for advice—about school, about girls, about football, about everything—is making his dreams a reality.

Pro football isn’t in the cards for me. I’m not like Jamal. I’m not like Micah. I’ll be content with grad school and then a nice little life. A house in the suburbs. Maybe a dog. Eventually some kids.

A pang ricochets through me. I thought I’d have Mason beside me in that future. I thought we were building something together. Instead, I stand alone.

I’ve had two sessions with my new therapist, Dave, a doctoral candidate with a Marriage and Family Therapy degree—the same degree Mason wants to pursue. He’s in his mid-twenties, single, and rocks some pretty sick dreadlocks falling halfway down his back. He’s exactly the type of therapist I never knew I needed. He listens well, he doesn’t condescend, and he lets me talk. I didn’t know how badly I needed to just talk it out until I unloaded on his couch.

My moms had me in and out of therapy all through childhood. My brother too. I had a mild crisis of conscience in my preteen years about being adopted and puberty and who even am I if I don’t know my biological family. The therapy helped. I tried it again after the breakup, but things were still a little too raw for me to process at that time. Sometimes, people need a little extra help. I’m man enough to admit when I can’t do it on my own.

Jamal arranges for us to sit in a private suite with the rest of the team’s private guests. Two players have their wives in for the game. One player has what seems like his entire family there.

Barrett gets a beer—because he can, because it’s something to do with his hands—and I drink a bottle of water. My brother is actually getting some good playing time in. He’s not half bad.

Of course he’s not bad. He wouldn’t be playing in the NBA if he was terrible. Still, it’s a little weird to realize the kid I grew up with, the big brother who slept two doors down from me our entire lives, is now a professional athlete in the prime of his career.

I take a few videos of the crowd, of the arena, and post it to social media. I don’t pretend to think Mason still follows me. I know she hasn’t removed herself as my friend. I’m not posting to brag about how cool my life is. Okay, maybe I am a little. Mainly I’m posting because the only other things on my page are football highlights, and I need a little brightness in my life. I have my camera trained on the hoops when Jamal sinks a basket. I send that video to my moms. I’m sure they’re watching the game at home—they try to watch all of his games, even the late-start west coast games—but it’s nice to “see” it live.

Detroit takes a significant lead late in the second half, so of course Jamal gets some more playing time. His minutes are protected, playing against the second string guys instead of the top players. The Celtics fans start getting restless. We’re in enemy territory, a wave of red, white, and navy blue amongst a sea of green jerseys. It’s a precarious position. Detroit pulls ahead in the last five minutes. It’s a close score, 113 to 110.

After the game, we follow the rest of the suite’s inhabitants to meet my brother and his teammates in the friends and family room off the side of the locker room. The players are all wearing suits and ties, the ladies are dressed to kill, and then there’s Barrett and me in grubby jeans and sweatshirts.

“There you are!” Jamal starts towards me. He slings his arm around my neck. “Haven’t seen you in ages, Tucky.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“My little Tucky-poo.” He pinches my cheek. I try to fling him off of me, but he holds tight. He grabs me into a headlock and gives me a noogie. “My little baby brother.”

I manage to evade his grasp. I tackle full-grown men on the field every day. Jamal is no trouble for me—even if he’s two inches taller, I’m close to fifty pounds heavier. We grew up wrestling and tussling. Now I’m afraid to exert too much pressure lest I injure the multi-million dollar hands he’s blessed with.

Barrett laughs. “You mean I can’t call you Tucky-poo?”

“Fuck you.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “Oh, all the guys are definitely going to hear about this.”

Jamal releases me and brushes down his suit. I straighten my clothes.

“No, they’re not.”

“Not that I’m totally thrilled you brought a dude with you,” Jamal starts, and I groan. “I thought you were bringing Mason? I was looking forward to seeing her.”

My easy smile fades. My brother sees the answer on my face.

“I’m going to kill her,” he says. He cracks his knuckles. “I have time to make it out to Newton and back before the flight takes off.”

“It was me. I’m the one who ended things,” I admit. The ache in my chest isn’t so all-encompassing anymore. I’m not ready to move on, but I’m not stuck in that paralyzing numbness. We’ve been apart again almost as long as we were together. “It wasn’t working.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “I haven’t seen you as happy as you were with her in—years. Since she ended things the first time.”

“Yeah, but we gave it an honest try. At least, I did. There were problems. She wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t open up. And I couldn’t keep pushing. She wanted something I can’t give her.”

Jamal frowns. “What? A lifetime of happiness?”