Love In Due Season: Ch. 6

New Ground

By March, the mornings felt different.

The sun rose a little earlier. The air felt a little softer. And Lailah, for the first time in a long time, didn’t wake up with that familiar weight sitting on her chest.

She sat at the table sipping her coffee when Elijah came in, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped.

“Did you finish your project?” she asked.

“Almost. AJ and Jo-Jo said they’d help me finish it today if I go over to Mrs. Willie Mae’s house after school.”

She raised her brow. “You asked first, right?”

“Yeah. Granny Willie said it was fine.” Elijah grinned. “She said I eat too little for a boy my age.”

Lailah shook her head, laughing quietly. “Of course she did. Alright, you can go. Just call me when you get there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He leaned down, hugged her, then jogged out the door as the bus pulled up.

She stared at the door long after he left, feeling something she hadn’t felt in years.
Hope. Real hope.
Not the flimsy kind built on wishes, but the steady kind built on progress.

She gathered her things and headed out. Fridays were her long days. Ten to seven. She still wasn’t used to the feeling of driving away from work before the sky turned dark, but today she’d be staying through the evening rush. She didn’t mind it. This job had become a refuge.

By four-thirty, she was already inside Southern Grace, clipboard tucked under her arm, checking vendor deliveries and inventory for the evening event. The hum of the venue during the day felt different than at night. Calmer. She liked seeing the bones of the space before it turned into magic.

At five-thirty sharp, the servers began trickling in. Some were half-awake, some loud and chatty, some scrolling their phones as they clocked in. Selena waltzed in last, purse too big, voice too loud, smile too bright.

“Coordinator!” she announced dramatically, throwing her hands up. “Look at her. Running this place like she owns it.”

“Please stop,” Lailah muttered, checking off the linen deliveries.

Selena leaned her head against Lailah’s shoulder. “No. Because I am proud. You glowed up on me. I am witnessing it in real time.”

Lailah rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t fight the smile forming.
Selena always saw more in her than she saw in herself.

“You here till close tonight?” Selena asked.

“Probably. This one’s a bigger wedding.”

“Good. I need someone to complain to. These new kids don’t listen.”

“You don’t listen,” Lailah teased.

“Exactly. But at least I admit it.”

Lailah shook her head and moved toward the kitchen, trying to escape before Selena said something else outrageous.

The kitchen was already alive with motion. Prep cooks chopping vegetables. Junior staff plating hors d’oeuvres. The scent of garlic and rosemary warming the air.

And there was Julian, moving quietly through the chaos like it answered to him.

He didn’t have to bark orders.
He didn’t have to raise his voice.
People simply followed him because he carried a calm that steadied the room.

He looked up just as Lailah stepped inside.

And that calm sharpened.

Not harshly.
Just like he became a little more aware of the space she occupied.

“You settling into this coordinator thing yet?” he asked.

“A little,” she said, checking another item off the list. “Still finding my footing.”

“Well, from what I can see, everybody listens to you.”

She snorted. “That’s because I scare them.”

Julian smiled. “No. It’s because you carry the room without trying. People trust that.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she stared harder at the tablet.

He didn’t move. “Lailah.”

“Hmm?”

She looked up, and he was watching her in that quiet, unwavering way he had.
Not intense. Not bold.
Just deeply present.
The kind of look that made her feel seen in places she didn’t realize were invisible.

She cleared her throat. “You’re supposed to be prepping for later, not flirting with the staff.”

“Finally you noticed,” he said, grin slow and warm. “I was starting to think my game was off.”

Her breath hitched. “Julian…”

He must have seen the hesitation forming, the worry, the age difference creeping in, because his smile shifted into something steadier.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head, trying to piece her thought together. “You’re younger than me. And I’ve got a kid. And life is already complicated enough without adding…” She stopped, frustrated she couldn’t articulate the rest.

Julian took one step closer. Then another.

“Lailah.”

She met his eyes.

“Have dinner with me.”

It wasn’t playful.
It wasn’t teasing.
It wasn’t him trying to charm her.

It was steady. Sure.
Like a man who had already counted the cost.

She opened her mouth. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I think I can handle myself.”

She blinked. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said lightly. “But I’m saying it anyway.”

Her pulse fluttered, warm and unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

“Julian…”

“I’m not asking for forever,” he said. “Just dinner. You and me. One evening.”

The safe answer.
The logical answer.
The mother answer.

All of them hovered on her tongue.

But something softer spoke first.

“Okay,” she whispered.

His smile was slow. Confident. Certain. “Good. I’ll text you the details.”

He walked back toward the prep station like he hadn’t just shifted her entire world.

Lailah stayed rooted in place, breath caught somewhere between her heart and her ribs.

Selena peeked around the corner from behind the shelving. “Girl, what did I miss?”

Lailah clutched her tablet to her chest, flustered. “Nothing.”

Selena raised her brows. “You lying.”

Lailah shook her head quickly and walked off to check the centerpieces before her face betrayed everything she didn’t have the strength to hide yet.

But inside her chest, something warm unfurled.

Something she wasn’t ready to name.

Something that felt like the beginning of something good.

Love In Due Season: Ch. 5

The Bloom

The argument began before sunrise.

Lailah stood at the stove flipping pancakes when her sister’s voice came sharp from the hallway.
“You got paid last Friday, didn’t you?”

Lailah turned, spatula in hand. “I did. Why?”

Her sister came into the kitchen, arms folded tight. “Because the rent’s due, and I don’t see you struggling to pay it like the rest of us. You’ve got those catering jobs now. Extra money.”

“I pay you every month,” Lailah said evenly. “On time. I’ve just been saving the rest so Elijah and I can get our own place.”

Her sister gave a short laugh. “Mm-hmm. Meanwhile, I’m the one making sure he eats dinner and gets his homework done. Feels like I’m raising him more than you are.”

Lailah exhaled, lowering the spatula. “But I asked you if it was okay. You said yes.”

Her sister shot back, “Well, how long do I have to keep doing this, Lailah?”

That question hung heavy in the air. From down the hall came the soft click of Elijah’s door closing—the quiet sound of him pretending not to hear.

Lailah swallowed hard and turned back to the stove. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said quietly.

She dropped Elijah at practice later that day, guilt still sitting heavy. She told herself she’d go for a walk before work, but her car drifted toward Southern Grace like it had made the decision for her.

The parking lot was empty when she pulled in. She turned off the engine and sat there for a long moment, forehead resting against the steering wheel.

“Lord,” she whispered, voice raw. “I’m doing the best I can. Please don’t let me mess this up.”

Tears came quietly—no sobs, just the steady kind that felt like release.

The back door opened, metal clanging softly. Julian stepped out with two trash bags, tossed them into the dumpster, then noticed her car and paused.

He walked over and tapped gently on her window. “You’re early.”

She wiped her face and managed a small smile. “Couldn’t sit at home anymore.”

He studied her for a second, then nodded toward the door. “Come inside. You can help me polish silverware. It’s calming work.”

Inside, the reception hall was mostly dark, one overhead light spilling across the long table. The faint scent of lemon polish and herbs hung in the air.

Julian gestured to a chair. “Sit. I’ll grab the napkins.”

She gave a tired laugh. “You always put people to work when they show up early?”

“Only the ones who need a distraction.”

It earned a small smile from her.

For a while, the silver clinked between them, the quiet settling like a blanket.
Finally, Lailah spoke. “My sister’s upset. Says she’s tired of watching Elijah when I work weekends. She’s not wrong, I guess.”

Julian nodded. “That’s a lot to carry.”

“It’s temporary. I keep telling myself that.”

He glanced at her. “You’ve been running on fumes. Between the school and here… it’s too much for one person to keep doing.”

Lailah lifted an eyebrow. “You been keeping tabs on my hours?”

He smirked. “You’ve been here long enough for me to notice who’s tired and who’s just lazy.”

She laughed under her breath. “Guess I know which one I am.”

“I didn’t say that.” His smile softened. “But I think you deserve better than tired.”

She looked away. “You always talk like you know exactly what people need.”

He shrugged. “I just pay attention.”

Their eyes lingered on each other for a beat too long.

Julian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Actually, that’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. We have a coordinator position opening up here. I think you’d be good at it.”

She blinked. “Me?”

He nodded. “You’ve got the patience and the instinct. You see what needs doing before anyone says it. The pay’s solid—better than what you’re juggling now. You’d be training staff, managing schedules, helping with planning. More leadership. Less chaos.”

Her breath trembled. “Julian… why are you helping me so much?”

He paused, eyes thoughtful. “It’s like when I’m in Grandma Willie’s backyard. When I pull up the weeds, the flowers and the crops grow more.” He stacked the last of the polished silver, neat and measured. “I’m just pulling up weeds because I want to see what you look like when you’re fully bloomed.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

At five-thirty sharp, the evening servers began filing in, tying aprons, grabbing trays, filling water pitchers. The usual pre-shift buzz echoed through the kitchen.

Except tonight, something was off.

CJ hurried in, face tense. “Chef, we’ve got a scheduling problem. Two servers called out. The replacement list has the wrong numbers. And the tables for the ceremony flip? They’re still not assigned.”

Julian muttered, “Perfect timing,” under his breath.

The kitchen was tense, people talking over one another, CJ flipping through papers.

Without being asked, Lailah set down her rag and stepped into the commotion.

“Okay,” she said calmly, “stop. One at a time.”

The room quieted—not because she raised her voice, but because she didn’t.

She reached for the clipboard and scanned it quickly. “Table assignments can be split. Put the stronger servers on the groom’s side. Newer ones stay on drinks. And the flip? Move Kennedy and Mark to the terrace. They’re quick.”

CJ blinked. “That’ll work.”

“And switch the coffee station,” she added, pointing. “It’ll bottleneck if it stays by the archway.”

Julian crossed his arms, watching.

Within minutes, everything was back on track. The younger servers moved with direction again. CJ exhaled like he could finally breathe.

And Lailah went right back to wiping down the prep counter like solving the crisis was nothing.

Julian stepped beside her, brushing her shoulder with his. “I told you,” he said with a small laugh, eyes warm. “We need a coordinator.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” he said, amusement tugging at his mouth. “I’m just stating facts. You’d be perfect for it.”

She rolled her eyes—but she smiled.

He stood, heading toward the kitchen. “I guess that’s your way of taking the job,” he laughed.

Outside, the parking-lot lights flicked on, gold and soft.

For once, she didn’t feel buried.
She felt seen.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 6

Chapter Six: Always Home Court Advantage

Michelle and Carlton

Michelle had stared at the team logo on the paperwork for most of the flight.
She tried to be casual about it, folding the packet into her bag, then pulling it out again, then tucking it under the in-flight magazine. But her eyes always found it. Bold lettering. Team colors. The insignia of a franchise she’d only ever seen on jerseys and TV broadcasts.

Now her name was typed beneath it — Lead Physical Therapist.

Her thumb traced the sharp outline of the logo until the paper edges wore soft. She leaned back against the seat, headphones resting but silent, heart knocking with a steady rhythm.

When Reese had first told her about the contract, she hadn’t believed him. Even as he showed her the signed documents, even as the clinic’s letterhead branded the deal, it had felt… hypothetical. Now, thirty thousand feet in the air with the paperwork heavy in her lap, it felt real in a way that squeezed her chest.

On the descent, she pressed her forehead against the cold window. Clouds gave way to lights glittering below, and her breath fogged the glass. She whispered under it, almost like she was making a pact with herself:

Don’t forget this moment. Don’t forget how it feels.

The airport, the shuttle, the hotel drop-off, it all blurred. What cut sharp was the credential.

It was heavier than she expected when security clipped it onto her lanyard. Heavier, too, when it thumped against her chest as she walked through the back corridors of the arena. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, staff rushed past with radios and clipboards, voices weaving into a low hum.

She caught her reflection once in a narrow glass door: hair braided back, team jacket zipped, badge catching light. For a second, she stopped walking. The image startled her. She didn’t look like an outsider anymore. She looked like she belonged.

The guide ahead waved her along, and Michelle quickened her pace.

The first sound of the court reached her before the sight did. Sneakers squeaking. A ball snapping against hardwood. Coaches barking instructions. The familiar rhythm hit her chest like a drum.

And then the tunnel opened.

She stepped forward, and her breath caught.

The court stretched wide and impossibly bright under the house lights. The empty arena loomed massive, thousands of seats climbing into shadow. The jumbotron glowed faintly, screens rotating through logos. The floor gleamed — polished, proud, almost sacred.

Her throat tightened. She hadn’t expected to feel small here, but she did. Not in a way that shrank her, but in a way that reminded her how big this dream really was.

Carlton noticed her first.

He was mid-drill, catching a pass at the wing, when movement in the tunnel pulled his eyes. Michelle.

Credential swinging, jacket zipped, eyes wide as they swept the arena.

His chest seized. For a half second, the ball in his hands didn’t exist.

He’d pictured this moment a hundred times since Reese called him about the contract, but reality still cracked something open inside him. She wasn’t visiting. She wasn’t sneaking into his world for stolen hours. She was here.

When her gaze finally landed on him, she smiled; small, almost private. He had to force himself not to cross the court and grab her.

A staffer ushered her down the sideline.

“Michelle, this way. Coach wants to meet you.”

The introductions were quick but warm. The head coach clasped her hand with a nod of respect. “We’ve heard a lot. Carlton swears by you. But even without him, your work speaks loud. Welcome to the team.”

The players crowded around, offering handshakes, shoulder bumps, half-jokes about finally getting someone who could fix their ankles right.

Carlton brushed her hand as she passed him. Barely a touch, but it sparked all the way up her arm. Her head tilted just slightly, eyes catching his. Later, that look said.

Malik, of course, couldn’t resist.

“Ayo, Carlton!” His voice cut through practice noise like a trumpet. “Don’t start getting soft on us now!”

The sideline cracked up. Carlton cut him a look sharp enough to kill. “Not now, Malik.”

Michelle flushed, eyes darting down, pretending to adjust her badge. Her pulse betrayed her.

Hours later, the arena emptied.

Michelle wandered onto the hardwood, sneakers quiet on the shine. The stands rose like a mountain around her, lights gleaming, space humming with silence. She turned slowly, letting herself soak it in. Tomorrow this place would be packed and she would be sitting on the sidelines. In person.

This was bigger than she had imagined. Heavier. But the bounce under her shoes felt the same as any gym she’d ever been in.

She drifted toward center court, lifted her face to the rafters, and let her chest loosen.

That’s when the echo came. A ball. One clean bounce.

She turned. Carlton, now alone at the arc, sent it spinning her way.

It rolled to a stop at her feet.

“Can you make it on the big stage?” His voice carried, low and teasing, but something lived underneath it.

Michelle bent, fingers curling around leather. Her palms remembered the grooves like muscle memory. Tears welled, uninvited but inevitatable. She dribbled once, rose into her midrange shot, and released.

Back of the iron. Bounced high. Net. Clean.

The ball bounced back. She caught it, tears welling unbidden, and laughed through them. “It’s the same feel,” she said softly, turning toward him. “Just a different location.”

But he wasn’t where he had been.

He was closer now. On one knee. A ring catching the arena light.

Her breath snagged. The ball slipped from her hands, echoing as it rolled away.

Carlton’s eyes never left hers.

“You’ve been my teammate since the day you walked into the clinic,” he said, voice steady, filling the cavernous space. “We’ve been running plays together without ever calling them. We’ve carried each other when the other was tired. There were games we’ve won that nobody else even saw.

“But I don’t want it to stay there. I don’t want to keep stealing time or living in separate worlds. I don’t want to try to fit you in. I want one life. Ours. Together.” He swallowed, then pushed the last words out clean. “Michelle… be my teammate for life.”

Tears blurred her vision. She covered her mouth, laughing and crying all at once, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

“Ay yo!” Malik’s laugh bounced off the rafters. “I knew you had something up your sleeve, man. Couldn’t even wait ‘til after the playoffs?”

Carlton stood quickly. Michelle groaned, hiding her face in Carlton’s chest. He shot a look over his shoulder, sharp enough to slice. “Malik, if you don’t—”

But Malik only grinned wider, holding his hands up. “Alright, alright! I’m gone. Y’all do your fairytale thing.” He jogged off, still chuckling, his voice fading down the hall. “Teammates for life… boy, you corny as ever.”

Michelle shook with laughter against Carlton, tears and giggles tangled together now. Carlton kissed the top of her head, muttering, “I’m trading him next season.”

She tipped her chin up, smiling through the blur. “No you’re not.”

He sighed, pretending to be irritated. “Fine. But will you marry me? We don’t have to invite him to the wedding.”

Laughter burst out of Michelle before she could tame it. She hushed herself with her hand covering her mouth. “Deal.”

He slid the ring onto her finger, and it fit like it had been waiting.

She pulled him into a kiss that swallowed everything. The months of waiting. The late-night calls, The aching hearts.

It was deep, unhurried, certain.

When they broke apart, Michelle pressed her forehead into his chest, laughter shaking through tears.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you more,” he said, holding her like the promise was already complete.

The arena stayed quiet. Just two people, center court, choosing forever where the world came to play.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 4.2

Chapter Four: November Stretch

Carlton

The office still smelled faintly of coffee and copier ink, the kind of mix that clung to walls when a long day refused to end. Reese leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, listening while I tried to keep my tone even.

“You’re telling me you haven’t put in for the contract yet?” I asked.

Reese rubbed his jaw. “I’m running numbers, CJ. I need to make sure—”

“No.” I cut him off, sharper than I meant. “I told you Coach is in the market. Why haven’t you done anything?”

His eyes narrowed. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple.” I leaned forward, hands pressing into my knees. “You’ve got the talent, the team, and the track record. You’re scared, Reese. You’re acting like you’ve got something to lose when all you’ve done this year is win.”

He exhaled hard, like the truth stung. “We lost two therapists in a month.”

“And you replaced them with Michelle,” I shot back. “Who you just admitted is a game changer.”

His silence was answer enough.

“You ran the numbers,” I pressed. “And?”

“And…” He shifted in his chair, finally letting the words out. “This year we’ve had more clients than the last four combined. Word of mouth is crazy. People ask for Michelle by name. She’s getting them back faster than I can track. She’s building a reputation across the city.” He shook his head, half proud, half worried. “That’s the problem. What if she leaves, CJ? What if this pace burns her out and I lose the very person holding us together?”

I felt my jaw tighten. “You already are burning her out. I see it. You gave her the weight of two people and she’s still standing. That’s not a reason to hold back, it’s a reason to go bigger. Get her help. Build around her. That’s what leaders do.”

Reese frowned. “You sound like you’ve got all the answers.”

“I don’t.” I leaned back, gave him space. “But I know this: you throw your name in for that contract, I’ll back you with Coach myself. You got me back on the court three weeks sooner. That’s leverage. Just throw me the lob—I’ll finish it.”

For a second, he stayed stone-faced. Then a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, despite himself. “Alright. I’ll look into it. If I throw our name in, you better back me up.”

I grinned back, voice firm. “You know I will.”

The air loosened after that. We let the tension bleed off the way old teammates do—naturally, like a muscle unclenching after the final whistle. Reese leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“You always did get worked up when you believed in something,” he said. “Back in college, you’d chew a whole locker room out just because one guy missed a rotation.”

“And we won, didn’t we?” I shot back.

He laughed, pointing at me. “See? Same Carlton. Only difference is now you’ve got someone making you this fired up off the court, too.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “Don’t start.”

“Nah, I’m serious,” he said, eyes narrowing in that way that meant he’d already connected the dots. “I haven’t seen you like this since Tiffany Caruthers.”

That name pulled a laugh out of me, low and unplanned. “Man, don’t bring up high school.”

Reese smirked, enjoying it too much. “You were gone over that girl. Walked around like you had a permanent pep in your step.”

“Yeah, well… this isn’t high school.”

His grin softened, genuine now. “I know. That’s why I can tell it’s real.”

I didn’t bother dodging the truth. My voice dropped, steady as I said it: “Yeah. I’m in love with her.”

Reese leaned back again, watching me like a man who’d just confirmed what he already knew. “I figured,” he said simply.

We sat in the quiet a beat, the kind that only exists between brothers who’ve run suicides together and earned each other’s scars.

Finally, he clapped his hands together, breaking the spell. “Alright. I’ll look into this contract. No more pump fakes. But if this blows up, I’m sending Michelle to you with the complaint form.”

I laughed, standing to leave. “She’d probably write it in triplicate.”

“Exactly why I need her around.”

We shared a look, the kind that said more than the words. Then I headed out into the November night, knowing Reese would follow through—not just because I pushed him, but because deep down he wanted to win, too.

By the time I left his office, the night air hit sharp against my skin. November had settled into the kind of cold that reminded you basketball was an indoor game. I sat in the car for a while, engine off, thumb hovering over my phone.

Three months we’d been together. Nine months I’d known her. And still, nights like this, the distance pressed harder than a full-court press.

The season was a machine—four games a week, two cities in three days, hotel beds that all felt the same. I’d learned to live with the rhythm. But loving her inside of it? That was new. And harder.

Finally, I hit call.

She picked up on the third ring, voice soft like she’d been working too long again. “Hey.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Just finished some paperwork. Trying to convince myself to turn my brain off.”

“Any luck?”

A little laugh, weary but real. “Not so far.”

I leaned against the headrest, shutting my eyes. Just hearing her did more for me than sleep ever could. “You need to stop taking it all home.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” I paused, then said it straight: “I had a conversation with Reese tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked, careful.

“Yeah. Contracts. I pushed him.”

“Pushed him how?”

I hesitated, then softened. “Doesn’t matter right now.”

I gripped the steering wheel, wishing distance could collapse on command. “Michelle, put the paperwork down.”

She chuckled. “You sound like you’re giving me orders.”

“I am. Put it down. Right now.”

Another shuffle. Then a sigh. “Fine. It’s down.”

“Good.” I smiled. “Now lay back.”

“I’m on the couch already.”

“Perfect. Stay there. I’ll watch film so the TV doesn’t get lonely, and you…” I let the quiet stretch. “…you just breathe.”

We stayed like that, neither rushing.

“You always do this,” she said softly after a while. “Sneak past my walls.”

“Maybe your walls were never built for me,” I answered before thinking.

Another pause. This one heavy enough to make me wonder if I’d said too much. Then she whispered, “Maybe not.”

We didn’t say much after that. Didn’t have to. She drifted, her breathing evening out, while I sat in the car listening like it was music.

By the time we said goodnight, it was past midnight. I carried her voice upstairs with me, through brushing my teeth, through watching film with the sound off, through laying in bed staring at the ceiling.

The season would keep spinning. Flights, practices, games. But for the first time in a long time, I knew what I wanted off the court. And I wasn’t about to pump fake when the lane was wide open.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 4

Chapter Four: November Stretch

Michelle

I thought Monday mornings were supposed to move slow. Coffee, emails, easing into the week.
This one came like a wrecking ball.

By 9:15, two resignation letters hit Reese’s desk back-to-back. Both therapists—good ones, steady hands—decided they were done. Different reasons. Same result.

The first letter came from Jordan, who was one of our longest-tenured therapists. His mom was sick, and he needed to move back home to help. No one could fault him for that. The second came from Alyssa, who’d been on the fence for months, saying she wanted to try her hand at teaching full-time.

Two at once, though? It was a gut punch.

By 9:30, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Clients called to ask if their sessions were still on, if their programs would stall, if they’d be reassigned. Some were understanding. Others were already frustrated.

By 10:00, one therapist stormed into Reese’s office, demanding to know how he was going to redistribute the caseload. Another hovered near the front desk, muttering about burnout.

And by 10:15, I felt it—chaos, thick in the air, like humidity that made it hard to breathe.

I didn’t have time to think about how tired I was, or how long my weekend had been, or how little sleep I’d managed. I just moved.

I rerouted two clients to therapists I trusted to take them on without complaint. I grabbed the schedule binder, cross-referenced it against the app, and patched holes before anyone could trip on them. I picked up the phone myself and called three clients personally, just to assure them they weren’t forgotten.

“Hi, this is Michelle from the clinic. I just wanted to let you know we’ve already set you up with another therapist. Your program won’t miss a beat.”

Calm voice. Steady tone. Smile on my face even though they couldn’t see it.

One woman actually sighed in relief. “Thank you. I was nervous. I don’t want to lose momentum.”

“You won’t,” I promised. And I meant it.

Behind me, another therapist barked something about overbooking. Reese’s door clicked shut because he was on a call trying to patch up the business side of the fallout.

So I kept going.

By noon, I only had a sip water. By 1:30, I just had a bite of a protein bar that Jasmin gave me for lunch.

I was running on adrenaline and stubbornness. A strange kind of calm lived in me when everything else was breaking apart.

Reese finally caught me near the front desk while I was printing an updated schedule. His tie was loose, his forehead lined.

“Michelle,” he muttered, low enough so only I could hear, “you’re holding this place together. Thank you.”

It stopped me for half a second.

“Just doing my part,” I said, because I didn’t know how to take a compliment when everything inside me felt like duct tape holding a cracked foundation.

He gave me a look—one that said he saw through me—and walked off to take another call.

The rest of the week blurred.

Every morning, I walked into a storm. Every evening, I walked out feeling like I’d left part of myself behind.

The clients didn’t see it, though. They just saw order, structure, reassurance. The therapists, at least most of them, relaxed once they saw the load spread out. Reese got some breathing room to focus on salvaging the contracts.

But me? I was running on fumes.

By Friday night, my hands were still trembling from the constant back-and-forth of typing, texting, and adjusting schedules. My eyes burned. My brain felt like static.

And still, I said yes when Carlton texted.

Carlton: Fly out tomorrow morning. You free?

I looked at my phone for a long time before I typed.

Me: Exhausted.

The three dots bubbled on the screen. Stopped. Started again.

Carlton: Come anyway...please?

I closed my eyes. It was already late. I should’ve gone home, eaten something frozen, collapsed into bed.

But my heart typed before my head could argue.

Me: On my way.

His place wasn’t far, which is probably the only reason I actually went. I still had my work bag slung over my shoulder when he opened the door.

He smiled, soft but steady. “Long week?”

“Extremely.”

I dropped my bag on the floor like it weighed a hundred pounds. My phone buzzed in the side pocket. I ignored it for three seconds before the reflex kicked in and I reached for it.

Carlton stepped forward and gently took it from my hand.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, the kind of low that doesn’t demand. It invites. “Didn’t you tell me once you do this? Bring work home?”

My throat tightened. “I have to make sure—”

He shook his head, not unkindly. “Not tonight.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Tears hit before I even knew they were coming. The kind that burned hot because they’d been waiting too long.

Carlton didn’t flinch. He just pulled me close, one hand on the back of my head like he’d done it a thousand times in his mind before tonight.

“Michelle.” He said my name like it was safe here. Like I was safe here.

I pressed my face into his chest and finally let myself fall apart. Weeks of holding everything together poured out in the span of minutes. The chaos, the exhaustion, the ache of balancing this thing between us with the weight of everything else.

“This is hard,” I whispered into the fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t just about work. It was us.

“I know,” he said simply.

When the tears slowed, he tipped my chin up gently.

“Come lay down,” he said. “I’ve got film to catch up on anyway.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a soft directive, one that carried care, not control.

I let him lead me to the couch. He sat first, remote in hand, and pulled me down beside him. Not against him, not yet, but close enough that when I leaned, I found his shoulder waiting.

The TV flickered to life, some preseason reel playing, voices analyzing plays I barely heard.

He didn’t move much. Didn’t ask for anything. Just sat there with me, solid and warm, a steady rhythm of breath against my temple.

At some point, I drifted. The exhaustion finally caught up, heavier than gravity.

The last thing I remember was his thumb brushing my hand once, almost absentmindedly, like a reminder that I wasn’t alone.

I woke up to silence.

The TV was off. The blanket tucked over me wasn’t mine.

But the air carried something warm—eggs, maybe, and toast. The faint scent of coffee.

Carlton wasn’t in the room.

I blinked, tried to orient myself, then heard the sound of drawers opening down the hall.

He came out a minute later, dressed for travel: joggers, team duffel slung across his back.

“Hey,” he said softly, seeing me stir. “Sorry. I tried not to wake you.”

“What time is it?” My voice was rough with sleep.

“Early.” He set his bag by the door. “I’ve got to head out soon. But—” he nodded toward the kitchen, “I made you something. Please eat before you leave, okay?”

I followed his eyes toward the counter. A plate sat there waiting, steam curling into the air.

My throat tightened. “Already?” I managed, trying to keep my voice even.

“Yeah.” He crossed the room, crouched down so we were eye-level. “Hey. It’s fine. We’ll figure this out.”

Tears pricked my eyes again, uninvited. I hated how easily they came the last few weeks.

He caught it, though. Of course he did.

“I think this is worth the figuring out, Michelle.”

He brushed a hand against my cheek, quick, before standing.

I watched him sling his bag over his shoulder, open the door, and step into the dark morning.

And for the first time, I realized I didn’t just like him around.
I wanted him.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 3.2

Pick Up Game Pt. 2

Carlton

When she said yes, I had to school my face not to give away what was happening under my skin.

I’d asked half-expecting her to check her watch, mumble something polite, and let me off easy. Instead, she hesitated, then said, “Yeah, I could eat.”

It was nine o’clock on a Tuesday. Nothing about that answer was automatic.
And that’s how I knew.

The walk to the car felt longer than it was, every step too aware of her beside me. I’d spent months memorizing the way she moved in a professional space—shoulders squared, eyes sharp, words clipped with precision. Tonight she wasn’t that. Tonight she looked like she’d left the clinic behind and remembered she was allowed to just… be.

The diner wasn’t fancy—linoleum floors, neon sign humming in the window, waitresses who knew everyone by name whether they wanted to be known or not. But when she slid into the booth across from me, ponytail loose, cheeks flushed from the game, eyes still bright from laughter, it felt like the kind of place you remember years later just because this was where it started.

I asked if she wanted coffee. She smirked. “Not unless you want me wired till morning.”
So water for her, iced tea for me. Small things, but they felt like first steps in the right direction.

At first, we stayed light. Trash-talk carryover from the court, jokes about Malik’s constant need for attention, the art of hitting a bank shot and pretending you meant it. She laughed at one of my stories about rookie hazing, and the sound was easy—unforced. I realized how badly I wanted to hear it again.

But little by little, the conversation turned. She asked about travel, how much the schedule wears on you when the world only sees the highlight reel.

“It’s a grind,” I admitted. “They see forty-eight minutes. They don’t see the ice baths at two a.m. or the days when your body’s cashing checks your head didn’t even write.”

Her eyes softened in a way that made me feel seen. “So why do it?”

I thought for a second. “Because even with all that—there’s nothing else like it. Court feels like the one place where I know exactly who I am. But… I do think about what’s next sometimes.”

That surprised her. “Most guys won’t admit that out loud.”

“Most guys don’t have someone worth being honest with,” I said before I could edit it down.

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, then closed again. She traced the rim of her glass. “Sometimes I wonder that too. If this—helping people with movement, recovery, rehab—is my forever, or just the season I’m in. I love it, but… I don’t know. I don’t want my whole identity to be my job, you know?”

I nodded slow. “Makes sense. You’re more than the clipboard.”

The way she looked at me told me that sentence hit closer to her core than I expected.

We shifted again, this time into lighter waters. She leaned in, smirk tugging at her mouth. “You must be used to it though. All the attention. Athletes don’t usually sit in diners at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday—they’ve got women lining up.”

I laughed. “You give me too much credit.”

“Do I?” she teased.

“Yeah,” I said, pointing my straw at her. “Meanwhile, I’m guessing you’ve broken a few hearts without even knowing it.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

I shrugged. “Don’t act like you don’t know. Some guy probably thought you were smiling at him when you were just being polite, and he went home writing your wedding vows in his head.”

She shook her head, laughing, but her cheeks warmed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s the truth,” I said, and for a second the joke wasn’t a joke anymore.

We let the silence hold between us—not awkward, just charged. Then she broke it with a story about her sister stealing her car in high school and crashing it into a mailbox, and the spell loosened into laughter again.

Time started bending after that. We moved from surface to depth without ceremony. Family, past seasons, moments that shape you in ways strangers don’t see. The food barely mattered. Fries turned cold, ice melted in glasses, but neither of us cared. Hours slipped past without either of us checking the time. By the time we realized, the staff was half-wiping tables like they wanted to close but weren’t going to tell us to leave.

Walking her out, I slowed down without meaning to. The air was cool, sharp enough to remind you the night was ending but soft enough you didn’t want it to. She thanked me like it was just a meal, but we both knew it wasn’t just that. Not for me.

At her car, I almost rushed it. Almost blurted out let me take you out officially just to stop holding it in. But something in me knew better. Timing mattered. She deserved more than a rushed ask under a buzzing streetlight.

So I steadied my voice.
“I’m out of town for a stretch starting tomorrow,” I told her. Preseason—starters wouldn’t play, but the travel was mandatory. “But when I get back…” I held her eyes so she knew this wasn’t casual. “…let’s do this again. Properly.”

For a second, she didn’t answer. She swayed a little where she stood, her hand brushing the strap of her bag. The light caught her face just enough for me to see the blush rising, the way she bit her bottom lip like she was working something out in real time.

And then she smiled—small, certain.
“I look forward to it.”

I felt that answer settle deeper than anything I’d felt in months.

I got in my car that night knowing two things for sure:
Basketball was coming back to me.
And so was she.

No pump faking this time.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 3

Chapter Three: Pick Up Game Pt. 1

Michelle

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I made three separate deals with myself between my apartment and the rec center.

Deal one: if there’s no parking, I’m going home.
Deal two: if the first court’s packed, I’m going home.
Deal three: if I lace up and still feel weird, I’m going home.

Parking lot had a spot. Court had room. And the second I tightened my laces and felt the familiar snug of leather around my heel, the weird feeling left like it had showed up at the wrong address.

I checked in, signed the clipboard—pickup from 6 to close, winners hold, next five on—and stretched along the baseline. The place smelled like polished wood and after-work sweat. A couple teens were practicing between games, flicking threes with loose wrists. Two men in their forties argued about an out-of-bounds call so politely it almost wasn’t an argument. The scoreboard was off; in here we carried the count in our heads.

I got run on the third game. New faces glanced at me, eyebrow ticks, that half-second they always take to decide if a woman on the list is a mascot or a basketball player.

“Run point?” one of my teammates asked, testing.

“Depends,” I said. “You set a screen?”

“Always.”

“Then yeah.”

We found rhythm fast. Nothing fancy. I pushed pace when the lane opened, pulled back when feet got heavy. Hit a midrange that felt like muscle memory, then fed a big for an easy lay. Breath came hot and familiar; my shoulders settled into that roll that says keep calling for it.

We were up two when I caught a voice I knew without having to turn.

“Michelle?”

I pivoted and there he was on the sideline—gray shorts, white tee, hands on hips, that same steady look he had at the clinic, minus the clinic. Carlton.

My heartbeat did a small, unathletic thing.

I lifted my chin. “You lose your gym?”

He smiled like I’d said something funnier. “Malik said they needed a body.”

“Don’t worry. This one is almost over,” I chided. “Sign in.”

He gave me a sarcastic salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

I tried not to notice the small explosion that sentence set off somewhere under my ribs.

“Next up,” the counter guy yelled.

I tightened my ponytail, met his eyes across the court, and tossed him a ball. “Try to keep up, Carlton.”

He put his palm toward the floor, gesturing that I was too small. I fought the smile that crept up like a thief. It won. This time.

First possession of the game, he guarded me. Of course he did. Too much pride not to. I crossed once, twice, faked like I was pulling back. He bit just enough. I drove hard, planted, banked it high off the glass right over him. His hand was late.

“Bucket,” I called, maybe louder than necessary.

He shook his head, grinning. “You really called glass?”

“I really made it,” I shot back.

He jogged downcourt, still smiling. “That’s one.”

“One’s enough,” I muttered, though we both knew it wasn’t.

The rest of the game was pure fun. He played me tougher after that, but I didn’t mind. We traded shots, ribbed each other, bumped shoulders without apology. When the final point dropped, his team edged mine by two.

Second game, we ended up on the same side. That was different.

I didn’t think about it at first—just ran the lanes, hit an outlet, reset when the play got messy. But then he screened for me, shoulder solid, space wide open, and I came off it like I’d been running it with him for months. Jumper, clean.

“Good look,” he said, hand up.

We slapped palms. Quick, casual. Too casual for how warm it felt.

Next possession, I picked up their guard. Carlton’s man cut through and we switched without talking, my hand brushing his back as we traded. Not much. Barely there. But noticable.

He cracked a joke after a missed layup, something about my assist-to-turnover ratio, and I pushed him in the chest, playful. He leaned back like I’d actually moved him, grinning.

“You’re trouble,” I said.

“True.”

By the third run, we were moving in rhythm—his cut feeding my pass, my drive opening his shot. He tapped my elbow after a jumper, I smacked his hand after a block. Little things, but not little to me.

By the end, the gym air felt soft around the edges the way it does after you’ve done what you came to do. Win or lose, the sweat evens people out.

We grabbed our bags from the bleachers at the same time without planning to.

“You hoop here a lot?” he asked.

“No,” I said, tying my laces loose. “It’s close enough to trick myself into coming. Today, I had to clear my head from some work stuff.”

“Good trick.”

We walked toward the door together, that heavy-but-not-heavy quiet padding along with us. Fluorescents hummed. Somebody in the corner kept shooting until the ball said “enough.”

At the cooler by the door, he poured water into a paper cup and handed it to me first, then filled his own. Small gesture. Big impact. I took a sip to have something to do besides look at him.

“I didn’t know you came here,” I said.

“I don’t, to be honest. But it’s a good group out here,” he smiled.

We were both quiet again, not the awkward kind. The kind that makes you aware of the space between two people because it’s not asking to be filled. It’s just… there.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to mine and then away. Nervous? Not something I was used to seeing on him.

“Next time you need to clear your head,” he said finally, “call me.”

It landed like a clean catch. No fumble, just hands and ball and certainty.

“I might,” I said, and then immediately felt the flush rise because I sounded more open than intended.

He let the silence breathe a moment. Then, hesitant, almost careful, he added, “You hungry?”

The question hung there.

I glanced at my watch. A little past nine. Later than I realized. I should’ve said no. Should’ve begged off with the easy excuse of an early morning.

But instead I heard myself say, “Yeah. I could eat.”

And I surprised myself by meaning it.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 2.2

Chapter Two: The Space Between pt. 2

Carlton

It’s easier to do the right thing when no one’s watching you do it. The hard part is sitting with yourself afterward.

Jasmin is excellent. I knew she would be. Her notes are precise in the app. Her hands find the spots that bark and coax them into something like cooperation. We move through progressions clean. No slack. No showboating.

But there are details I miss and pretend not to. The way Michelle says “let it settle” when a muscle wants to argue. The way she laughs when I act like a single-leg RDL is personal. The way she catches the micro-wince before I admit it’s a six out of ten and says, “Let’s back you off two degrees,” saving me from my own pride.

I keep all of that to myself because I chose this. Choosing means owning the stretch that follows.

The weeks after I told Reese, the schedule flipped like a page. We finally landed on Jasmin. New hands, new voice, new routine. Professional. Clean. No lines to worry about crossing. But absence is loud if you know how to listen to it.

My body was coming back to me in ways I trusted—shoulder stable, footwork cleaner, lungs remembering. The film didn’t lie. Neither did the mirror. But my head? It kept sliding toward her at odd angles: when a cue landed and I wanted to tell someone who would appreciate the precision, when a song in the weight room sounded like the one we joked about in session three, when recovery felt like prayer and I wanted to show it to someone who would treat it like church.

Reese and I had lunch out of habit on Wednesdays. Same little spot where the owner calls you “chief” even if you look like you’ve never captained anything. He ordered whatever he always ordered; I ordered protein like I was trying to convince my cells I still loved them. We ate in the comfortable quiet of men who’ve run suicides together and don’t need words to prove they did.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said, eventually.

“What thing?”

“Staring through food like it owes you money.”

I snorted. “I’m here.”

“Not fully.” He dipped a fry in something orange and sinful. “How’s the new setup?”

“Fine.” I shrugged. “Good work is still good.”

He waited, because he’s the kind of friend who can wait and still get an answer.

I rolled the condensation between my fingers. “She listens better than anybody I’ve worked with. That’s rare.”

Reese nodded, eyes on me, not the fries. “You told me that two months ago without the extra sentence you just didn’t say.”

“What sentence is that?”

“That you like her.”

I tilted my head. “I told you that already.”

“You told me the professional version.” He grinned. “I’m fluent in both.”

I laughed, because he earned it. Then I said the thing I’d learned to say when it was true: “I’m being careful.”

“Careful’s good.” Reese wiped his hands. “Also: no one ever won a game with only pump fakes.”

“I’m not pump faking.”

He lifted his palm. “I know. All I’m saying is when the lane opens, take it.”

I nodded, filed it, and changed the subject to the only thing that could ever hold equal weight for me: the work. We mapped the next two weeks like you map a road you can already see with your eyes closed: route, rest stops, exits you promise not to take.

Later that week, I swung by Reese’s sister’s coffee shop to help her unload a shipment. She’d asked me once before, and I never minded lending a hand. The place had its own rhythm—mismatched mugs stacked by the espresso machine, paperbacks that smelled like rain and glue, sunlight spilling lazy across wooden tables.

I came in through the back, carrying a box on my shoulder, and that’s when I saw her.

Front corner by the window, hair down, a dress I’d never seen her wear in the clinic. She was with another woman—her sister, I guessed. She’d mentioned her once during a session, in that offhand way you mention home when you’re still trying to figure out what “home” even means in a new city.

Michelle didn’t see me. She was laughing at something her sister said, head tipped, shoulders loose. Free. And in that split second, I understood a new kind of unfair: how someone could be breathtaking just by existing in their own joy.

She wasn’t taped into bands or counting reps or measuring degrees of flexion. She was just a woman with sunlight in her hair and the kind of smile you don’t earn by accident..

I dropped the box on the counter in the back, leaned against the shelves, and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I’d seen her a hundred times before. Hair pulled back. Black polo. Black pants. Focused. Professional.

But this? This was different. Dress soft against the light, and falling on every curve. Her laugh spilling like she’d been saving it.

She looked… free. And it wasn’t freedom from me or from anything else. It was freedom in herself.

And I wanted in on that. Not to take it, not to own it—but to be near enough that when she smiled like that, I could be the reason, even if only part of it.

Just months ago, I was thinking about angles and rehab protocols. Now I was thinking about what it would take to deserve that kind of closeness.

And that scared me in the best way. Because it meant this wasn’t a distraction. This wasn’t a passing thought. It was a shift.

I stayed in the back longer than I needed to, pretending to sort boxes so I wouldn’t risk bumping into her. But every sound from the front—her laugh, the scrape of her chair—pulled at me like magnets under the floor.

Eventually, I slipped out the side door. Some things you don’t interrupt, not when they’re that pure.

Back at the facility, Malik coasted beside me on a scooter someone had probably bought with poor judgment and a coupon code. “CJ,” he said, “you look like a man with a plan.”

“I’m a man with conditioning,” I said. “Big difference.”

He grinned, his favorite expression. “You still thinking about that PT?”

“She’s not my PT anymore.”

“Yeah,” he said, rolling the word like gum. “Exactly.”

I shook my head to chase him off and hit the court to shoot.

Ten makes from each spot, no move-ons until the net agreed. The ball felt clean in my hand. I don’t know how to describe the moment when your body and your will remember each other’s phone numbers again, except to say it’s like a city turning its lights back on.

Back to the grind.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 2

Chapter Two: The Space Between pt. 1

Michelle

It’s wild how a single empty hour can echo.

The thing about losing a client, especially one you’ve seen twice a week for months, is that the rhythm of your week changes. Not just the schedule, but the way the hours feel.

Carlton’s hour used to anchor my Saturday mornings. I’d come in, grab my tea, and know that the first real conversation of the day would be with someone who understood what it’s like to miss the thing you love doing most.

My first appointment is fifteen minutes late, and I hate that I notice the difference.

I pour hot water over the same tea bag twice and it still tastes strong. The clinic is calm at opening—sunlight cutting long rectangles across the lobby floor, the printer whispering to itself, the front door giving that soft hydraulic exhale every time someone comes in. I take a breath like the building’s doing it with me, slow and measured, and remind my body: we’re fine.

I add two lines to a treatment plan for someone else. I erase one and write it back, because indecision looks better typed.

When my client finally arrives, apologies tumble out of her like a dropped bag of marbles—sorry for the traffic, sorry for the no-show last week, sorry for the shoes squeaking on the floor. I steady her, settle her, and in fifteen minutes we’re working, the room doing that thing it does where time narrows to muscles and breath and what’s possible right now. That part always saves me. The work is a rope you can grab when your thoughts want to go wandering.

But the quiet moments in between, cleaning a headrest, switching out a band, the turn of my body toward the door because it used to open, that’s where the echo lives.

Jasmin passes by while I’m wiping down the table. She taps the doorframe. “Your nine became your eleven. You good?”

“Always,” I say. It lands a little too bright.

She lingers, the way people do when they’ve decided to care even if you won’t say you need it. “Carlton’s a machine,” she adds. “He did the tempo work without cheating. You must’ve trained that into him.”

I huff a laugh. “He came wired that way.”

“He asked me to keep the band sequence,” she says. “The wording. Said he likes how you describe it so I wrote it into his chart.”

I pretend to rearrange the towels so I don’t have to manage my face. “Consistency helps the nervous system,” I offer, like we’re at a conference and I’m a bullet point.

“Why’d he switch?”

I shrug. “No idea.” Which is true — and also not true. I don’t have the facts, but my gut says there’s more to it. And that unsettles me more than I want to admit.

Jasmin tilts her head, studying me like she can read the thought I’m trying to bury. “Uh-huh,” she says, eyes kind. “You want my last protein bar? It tastes like a cinnamon candle but in a good way.”

“I’m good.” I’m not hungry. I am… something.

My phone lights up with a message from my sister.

How’s the new city, Coach?

She still calls me that.

I thumb a reply: Learning the plays.

I don’t tell her there’s a hole in my Saturday shaped like a person I only know from a table’s distance.

By closing, the eucalyptus has faded to the smell of clean cotton and the faintest bite of disinfectant. I shut down the treatment notes, wash my hands longer than necessary, and tell the mirror over the sink that we’re fine, which is the first sign that maybe we aren’t.

On my way out, Reese is counting cash for petty expenses, lips pursed like the numbers might run away if he doesn’t pin them down with concentration. He glances up. “Good day?”

“Productive,” I say. It’s safe and true.

He nods. “You settling in?”

“Mostly.” I hesitated, then shrugged. “Still figuring out where everything is. I think I’ve been to three different grocery stores this week trying to find one that doesn’t feel like a maze.”

Reese smirked. “You need to hit GreenWise over on Mattison. Smaller than Publix, better produce. Trust me.”

That earned a small laugh from me. “Noted.”

There’s a space where he could ask the other question—Are you okay about the switch?—and I could say the safe thing. He lets it pass. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or annoyed.

Outside, the evening air shifts the hair at the back of my neck. My car is warm in the sun. I sit for a minute before starting it, hands at ten and two like a stereotype, and I’m surprised to feel a sting behind my eyes. I blink it away. I’m not sad, exactly. I’m… aware.

Pain is the body yelling. Awareness is the body clearing its throat. I’d told him that. Now my chest is a throat I can’t seem to clear.

I drive to the community center and run the indoor track until my legs shake. On the third lap, I catch myself counting the beats between breaths the way I counted the beats between our jokes, and I hate that the math is the same.

When I finally stop, sweat dripping into my eyebrows, I press my palms against the cool painted cinderblock and let the wall take my weight for a minute. Then I straighten, slide my hair tie a little tighter, and go again.

The hour passes.

The echo softens.

But it doesn’t go silent.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 1.2

Chapter One: The Switch Pt. 2

Carlton

Reese and I went back to college ball — same team, same grind, different positions. He was one of the best point guards I’d ever played with, but more than that, he was the kind of guy who stuck with you long after the season ended.

Over the years, we’d talked about everything: injuries, business moves, life off the court. Relationships too. Reese had a way of listening without judging, which made him easy to be real with.

So when I told him I needed a different therapist, I knew he’d hear me out.

“Everything okay?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “Michelle’s solid. She’s got a great reputation already, and my clients love her.”

“I know.”

“You mad at her?”

“No.”

“You trying to get under my skin?”

I laughed. “No.”

“It’s me,” I said, running a hand over my face. “She’s great. Amazing even. And I like her — more than I should if I’m trying to keep this professional.”

Reese gave a low chuckle. “You’ve been on her schedule for six months, man. You just noticing?”

I smirked. “Nah. I knew early on. But I’ve been careful. Thing is…I don’t want to be careful anymore. You know she yelled at me last week?”

Reese reached for the fax that just came through, shaking his head. “You probably deserved it.”

“It was a tough week. My contract is up for negotiation. I actually told her what was going on.”

“And…” Reese prodded.

“She sat there and listened. Then she prayed for me.”

That made him pause. His pen tapped against the desk, and he gave me a look that cut deeper than words. “She did what?”

“Prayed for me,” I repeated, leaning back. “Not some quick little ‘hope it works out’ either. She meant it. Like she wanted to cover me. I’ve never had a woman do that for me, Reese. Not once.”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “That explains it.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter. “And if I’m being real…I think she likes me too. Not just as her client. I see it in the way she looks at me sometimes. The way she remembers the little things I say. She doesn’t push past it, but it’s there. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice.”

Reese leaned back, studying me with that long pause that only a friend of years can hold. “CJ, that’s not something you just brush off.”

“Exactly. And that’s why I can’t sit in there, week after week, pretending I don’t feel what I feel. She’s not just helping get me back on the court. She’s reaching places I don’t usually let people touch and I don’t even know how that happened. I can’t cross that line while she’s working on me. She doesn’t deserve that mess, and you don’t either.”

He nodded slowly, reading between the lines. “Alright. I’ll make the switch. But you know she’s gonna notice.”

“That’s the idea,” I said, leaning back with a quiet smile.