I sit in Coach’s office, holding the cast on my injured hand at my side.

Brian Fable is in his late fifties. His salt-and-pepper hair is thick for his age. He’s got a muscular neck from years of working out, and though he’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt today, you can see the remnants of a disciplined man who has paid his dues in the gym.

The look on his face is more than enough to convey his current dismay as he rubs his temples.

“You’re telling me, you punched a tree.”

“Like George Washington, I will not tell a lie to you, Sir.”

One of the things about radical honesty, is that you sound like an idiot quite often, if you carry it to the Nth degree.

“Carter,” he facepalms. “I’ve seen some of your fucking antics, but dear Christ in heaven, why would you punch a tree?”

“I was feeling frustrated.”

“Frustrated?” His eyes widen, and he stands up. “Kind of like how I’m feeling right now, I’d imagine.”

“Yes.”

“Because my star fucking player finally decides to get his act together this season, so much so that we’ve only lost one game.”

My gut wrenches. It’s true. Chandler and I have been scoring half the team’s points. We were good last year, but something just clicked between us after this summer. When Chandler and I found out we were brothers—or cousins, apparently—we developed this connection on the court that has been unstoppable. It’s almost like we’re a hive mind.

“Seems that way, Coach.”

Coach goes silent, gazing out his window onto the rainy Chicago streets.

“How long are you out for?”

“The doctors aren’t sure. It’s an impounded metatarsal, so it’ll take an entire year to fully heal. It depends on the tenderness of the hand. For me to play safely, it will be four to six months, possibly.

He turns around and blinks a few times.

“Six months. Six fucking months. That’s damn near the entire rest of the season.” He shakes his head.

Coach is a tough man. But right now he looks like he’s about to cry.

“Obviously I’ll be in physical therapy trying to get it to heal sooner. I’m sorry, Coach.”

“Sorry doesn’t get my star player back, son.”

He exhales, and gives me a look like he’s not even angry—just disappointed.

“I’ll devote all the energy I can to rehab. Whatever it takes.”

“In six months, we’re going to be in the playoffs with a whole new squad.”

“You’re not going to trade me, are you?”

He turns his eyes away from my face. “With you gone, we need a new point guard. We’ve got to make the playoffs, son. But obviously trading you is a last resort.”

He shakes his head. “I really thought we had something special out there. You and Chandler were starting to play like a regular Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen tandem.”

“Sorry I let you down.”

He opens the door to let me out, and the whole team pauses to stare at me and the splint on my hand. It’s not big, but it sure as hell feels huge.

A strange feeling rides me as I walk out of the locker room. I feel like an alien, no longer a part of the team, but feel all eyes on me as I grab my gym bag and walk to the exit.

“Tell me more about that.”

“The rage I feel?”

“Yes. The rage that made you punch the tree.”

My therapist, Doctor Jacklyn Van Peppers crosses her legs and leans in toward me, note pad in hand.

“I feel like life’s unfair. I spent my whole life after high school hating Lacy for how she lied to me. She comes to my apartment for the summer, we have loads of hot sex. And fun. I start to like her. Then right when we’re getting to the point of being something more—bam—she leaves and moves to New York.”

“I see. So you’re mad she moved to New York.”

I furrow my brow a little bit, leaning back in the sofa. “Not really. It’s not her fault. She wanted to be a part of the Blue Illusion Dance team.”

“Oh, that’s fun. What kind of dancing do they do?”

“They’re the backup modern dancers for a variety of New York acts.”

“So she had to move to New York. That makes sense. Did you two ever talk about trying a long distance relationship?”

“She brought it up, but I shut her down.”

Right after we hooked up the last time. I decide to leave that last detail out for Doctor Van Peppers, as this is only our second session.

“So you told her no on the long distance relationship.”

“I don’t remember exactly, but basically I refused to talk about the possibility.”

“And you punched a tree because she told you she didn’t want to see you again.”

I clench up. “Hey, when you put it like that, you make me sound like an idiot.”

“Not my intention, at all. I’m just making sure I’ve got all my facts straight, Carter.”

She pushes her black-framed glasses up on her nose, scribbling more notes. I glance at the clock. Twelve more minutes.

“Here’s a question,” she taps her pen. “You hadn’t seen Lacy in four months, hadn’t heard from her. Yet you just decided to drop in on her on a random Saturday morning. Tell me more about the need to visit her.”

I swallow. “It wasn’t random. We were in town, playing at Madison Square Garden.”

“Oh. So you just popped in because you were there?”

I run my hand over my face, recalling the conversation Chandler and I had with Detective Gates the night before.

“Yeah, alright. There was something else. The night before—I met with this detective I’ve been seeing. He had some additional information for me about my father.”

“You’ve never mentioned your father.”

“Yeah, it’s a long twisted tale, but I’ve never met him either.”

Her face flushes red. “You’ve never met your father?”

I shake my head. “Until I turned eighteen, I thought he was dead.”

Her face fills with worry, but she doesn’t say anything, just nods. “Interesting.”

“I’m going to get my money’s worth out of these sessions,” I answer.

“So we’ll have lots to talk about next session,” she says, glancing at the clock.

“Next session,” I repeat.

Back at my apartment, I flip through the channels, landing on some nonsense reality TV show, Dating Naked.

The premise is ridiculous: sending people on dates, totally physically naked—which is supposed to somehow symbolize psychological forthrightness at the same time.

I’m not sure I agree, but right now, I just need to laugh at something.

As I watch, my mind wanders to Lacy.

I wonder what she’s doing this week.

I wonder if she’s thinking of me.

I’m tempted to pull up her Instagram, or even pull up my own Instagram and snap a pic.

Of what?

So I can give her fomo?

I’m trying to be less petty, not more.

Chandler said this therapist is the best, that she helped him sort through his shit so he could be with Amy, and I’ve never seen a more dedicated fiancée.

Amy is eight months pregnant, and although we’ve been tight on the court, off the court he’s been spending more and more time with Amy’s side of the family in the Chicago suburbs. He’s even put their apartment up for rent, and looking to move out of the city to be closer to her family’s place in Naperville.

Even a year ago, I would have called him crazy. But all I wanted to do then was go on dates with girls and stay frivolous.

I was too late in realizing I might just want the same thing with Lacy. I was scared. I didn’t want to hold her back in New York.

The truth was, I didn’t want to risk a commitment. Because what if we tried and things didn’t work out?

Then at least you’d know, Carter.

But we didn’t try.

So I’ll never know.

We’ll never know.

She won’t pick up my calls.

Though there’s still that ray of hope—she said I could have one more phone call.

My phone buzzes with a text.

I squint when I see the name I’ve given her in my phone: “Russian Girl from the Club.”

Jesus, I really have to start using people’s names when I label them. Or maybe, I should only hang out with people who’s names I know.

Russian Girl from the Club: Hey Carter. Long time no talk. Just wondering if you’re still alive.

I scratch my head. Natasha…

Jesus.

She likes life-ruiners? On the four to ten crazy scale, she’s at least an eight.

I feel hollow though, thinking about typing up a response to Natasha, and instead I click on my Instagram app, and pull up Lacy’s Instagram story.

It’s just updated. It’s Friday night.

It’s a boomerang of her and some dark haired guy doing a shot.

A ball forms in my throat. I cough a few times, turning to my cat Smokey, who’s watching me.

Staring at me.

Taking a deep breath, I turn off the TV, pull up my iPad, and put on my noise-canceling headphones.

I put on one of the Spotify ‘Chill’ mixes, and a random song comes up. Pacing around the house, I come to a stop at my tattered copy of the Great Gatsby, when the lyrics of this song hit me like a freight train.

The melody is an eerie acoustic guitar, and some harmonic fills that are one step short of gloomy.

I stare out the window, not focused fully on the book or the city.

The music fills me up, fitting my angsty mood perfectly.

I’m not a crier.

But I can feel the emotion sweltering inside me as the band sings.