What counts isn’t what people say to your face. It’s the rumors they whisper behind your back. And whenever Sarah’s back is turned, folks gossip about how she was in love with a drunk for a dozen years.

She adored how he bounced while running, and the smug way he exchanged jokes for laughter. She craved him as a teenager, when it was acceptable to live for stolen moments. And she supported him as a grown woman, out of equal parts devotion and naiveté. Sarah remained his lover because their relationship wasn’t supposed to be a sport. Therefore, she saw no need to determine a winner or keep score.

* * *

1992.

Sarah squinted and summoned a furious yawn, confirming her inner desire to hibernate. No one could blame her for wanting to hop back into bed. It was a dim winter morning, a dreary lead-in for her first experience in a city classroom. Switching schools mid-year was treacherous, especially for a shy senior. Anxiety barreled around her stomach and it wasn’t the feeling that she wanted. Between nervousness and the onset of seasonal affective disorder, surviving this inaugural day at a new high school seemed impossible.

For starters, Sarah’s sheltered rural upbringing hadn’t prepared her for the context of her morning commute. Sidewalks were speckled with decay and the horizontal bodies of winos. Rap music throbbed mercilessly from passing car stereos. Streets were outlined by heaps of caramelized snow, clotted with cigarettes and dirt. She usually found walks relaxing, but today’s stroll to school only furthered her situational vertigo.

Although snow has its purpose and winter can be bearable, Minneapolis was a new and not entirely wonderful place for Sarah Deckert. Her family had abruptly relocated to this city of polluted lakes, and she hadn’t become accustomed to the frozen mannerisms of the upper Midwest. The people seemed somewhat bizarre. Therefore, Sarah remained within an introverted cocoon until a reason to socialize strolled into third period.

His name was Jason Kincaid, shooting guard on the varsity basketball team. He was tall and gawky, with elbows that were lethal weapons on the court. A poster child of confidence, he sported number thirteen on his jersey without worrying about superstition. Jason dated the popular girls, some of them twice. He was a four-year letterman and honor student whose name and picture turned up in the paper frequently. Although that could’ve been influenced by his summer job at the Tribune, Jason undoubtedly made headlines because of his talent.

That day at school, the entire basketball squad wore navy-blue trousers and white shirts for a showdown versus the Catholic school across town. Jason entered the classroom bragging that he had ironed his pants without double-creases. Sarah failed to see why this was an achievement, but resisted saying anything sarcastic; after all, she was the new kid in school. Instead, Sarah offered him a polite but adoring grin as congratulations.

The next day, Sarah sketched him something on notebook paper. She wasn’t artistically talented, but it seemed like a pleasant way to break the ice. It was a simple drawing of a basketball with a hoop that said Keep shooting, Jason! in girly bubble letters. Jason flashed a thousand-watt smile and flirted with her for the rest of the school year.

Prior to commencement, he scribbled in her yearbook, You’re a special girl, Sarah. This was followed by a customary Seniors Rule ‘92 and his signature. His rugged handwriting looked more like Sanskrit than English. Later on at a party, they had a sincere discussion about how friends should remain close after graduation. They hadn’t realized it was customary to lose touch, and that even special girls and sports heroes weren’t exempt from this tradition.

* * *

1995.

The sky was spangled with fireflies, dozing towards gray. Winds untied remaining knots of cumulus clouds. Dandelions danced in the breeze with joy. Kids screamed with laughter, racing around the neighborhood on some mission of daring foolishness.

Sarah had arrived home earlier that afternoon, taking a deserved hiatus from college. She was now perched on the front porch, relaxing while the setting sun warmed her bare arms. Out of nowhere, Jason appeared like a random afterthought, lugging a six-pack of beer. His chest was meaty, more mannish than the wiry teenager she had previously fantasized about. He spoke to Sarah like they had hung out last week, even though it had been a couple years since they last socialized.

“I’m leaving school and entering the draft. I’ve got an agent and everything.” His voice crackled with enthusiasm, like a young boy who had discovered something new in the backyard.

She knew basketball was important to Jason, so she acted proud out of obligation. Sarah had heard positive things about Jason’s play at the University, but she didn’t know if this warranted truncating his collegiate career. After all, his defense had only marginally improved since high school, and he definitely possessed the brainpower needed to complete his coursework.

Jason always had a habit of switching subjects without a transition. “About a month ago, I finished lifting weights. It’s mandatory for the team during off-season. Afterwards, I sat down to watch a playoff game on TV, but it was on commercial break. Before the ads ended, I got a phone call from my mother saying that my dad just died.”

Sarah hung onto those sentences, trapped in the tyranny of their meaning. The night shattered like a glass bottle, succumbing to a hostile, heavy silence. The only remaining sound came from insects humming choral pieces in the background. Sarah didn’t know how to respond, so she remained quiet. She knew her presence said enough.

Jason’s eyes glistened slightly while he twisted a cap off a beer bottle. “Sarah, I know how to play basketball, but I don’t anything about losing my dad at twenty-one. There isn’t a game plan to follow when my only reason for going to school has died without warning.”

Jason pitched a handful of red landscaping rocks into the street. The pebbles skipped across the road, mimicking the inspiration that he possessed on the basketball court. Jason stayed with Sarah on the porch until they had downed all six beers. They sat together on cushioned wicker chairs, trying to grasp a world where a father can no longer cheer his son from the sidelines.

The next day, Sarah contemplated why Jason had reentered her life. After awhile, she decided to enjoy his reappearance without questioning it. Later that week, they went out on their first official date. He wore his navy blue slacks and white shirt, both of which were noticeably tighter on his frame. She wore a powder blue sunflower dress, black Mary Jane shoes, and a smile that had been ignored by other guys.

That summer, they sipped drinks together on the porch, discussed their dreams, and witnessed the Houston Rockets win their second NBA championship. Sarah watched basketball with Jason for his sake. For some reason, studying Hakeem Olajuwon’s quiet confidence helped him regain his own swagger. Basketball was now Jason’s surrogate father. Sarah could accept that, as long as she remained somewhere in his thoughts.

In late June, Jason was drafted in the second round, which meant he had to play without a guaranteed contract. A west coast squad chose him, a team that Sarah knew nothing about. Local sports fans barked that he was crazy to leave school early. When autumn arrived, Sarah returned to campus life, thinking more about Jason than academics.

* * *

1997.

Distance can be cancerous to any relationship, but Sarah tried to make the best of whatever time they did spend together. It didn’t help that Jason was perpetually late to everything except for practice and games. So she passed time by skimming through an outdated magazine, tolerantly waiting for his flashy entrance. Waiting for Jason was something that Sarah had reluctantly grown accustomed to doing.

He strolled into the hotel suite thirty minutes late, toting a bottle of costly champagne. She saw exhaustion within Jason’s chocolate eyes, so she offered him a slow and easy hug that lasted an eternity. It was a euphoric reunion. They kissed until the need for oxygen forced them to stop. It was one of those rare moments that exist in life, completely devoid of any past regrets or future uncertainties.

Although they had fooled around in the past, Sarah felt a surging internal need to prove herself as a sexual being. She took Jason’s fingers into her mouth and slowly sucked. He looked surprised to find that his fingertips were an erogenous zone and equally surprised that Sarah was the woman who had discovered this fact. He pulled her blouse free from her skirt and unbuttoned it all the way. She assisted his efforts by unlatching her bra, filling Jason’s hands with the fullness of her breasts.

Seduction should have felt like familiar ground, but Sarah was somewhat nervous. Jason tried not to look eager as he stripped, but his rigidity betrayed him. The wet squish of his entry sounded obscene as he grunted past her clinching resistance. The cream chenille bedspread cushioned their bodies as she rose to match his every thrust.

Jason was expressive that night. He even freely participated in the after-sex bedroom chatter that he usually despised. He spoke of imagining fear and success in the same breath. This was a year of contract negotiations for Jason. Although he played on the second worst team in the game, he had carved out a decent niche. Ironically, Jason was now primarily a defensive stopper, since his shooting touch had turned inconsistent.

Sarah listened to his babble, but she silently wished that he would return home to peddle used cars or whatever athletes do once their heyday is over. Jason clumsily explained, “I know that I must bore you with all this basketball talk. To be honest, sometimes I even bore myself. But when you listen, it feels better than winning that conference championship back in high school.”

She nodded off shortly after that statement. Sarah savored the sugary taste of his remarks, but remained painfully aware that it was all, as her dad would say, “Bull.”

* * *

1998.

A week after finishing her thesis, graduate school was a memory for Sarah. Friends and family were amazed that she had willingly swallowed an extra dose of education. While packing for a new job in Des Moines, she feigned excitement. Counterfeit enthusiasm had to be employed; Sarah was relocating to the armpit of the Midwest, and doing this without male companionship. She resented the notion of her corporate future, slaving away underneath fluorescent lights and glass ceilings, yet she was prepared to move forward in life.

A few honks blared outside, which prompted Sarah to peer through the front window. Jason stood beside a forest green Mustang, suavely posing like he had received endorsement dollars from Ford. The sports car gleamed in the sunlight. It clearly had yet to be molested by a Minnesota winter’s salted streets. Sarah sprinted outside and stumbled into Jason’s arms. He braced her to prevent a nasty fall.

“I play ball for the Bucks now, baby. It’s a lot closer. Do you want to see where I work?” Five minutes later, they were speeding rapidly towards Milwaukee.

Silence dominated this impromptu trip, but it wasn’t the comfortable silence of past encounters. A sharp uneasiness tainted the whole affair. Time had altered both of them. Jason’s face showed signs of his poor decision-making. She resisted speculating about this, but the scarcity of conversation made that difficult. After fifty miles of bland highway, Sarah started wondering about Jason’s mistakes, and if any of these errors were attached to a set of silicone tits.

During lunch, Jason ordered a double scotch with no ice. Four times. Upon leaving the restaurant, Jason was clearly smashed. Every step appeared to be a huge effort. Sarah insisted on driving, which summoned his angry words and her tears. Jason shot expletives in multiple directions, the same way light explodes from a cigarette butt tossed out of a moving car at night. People walked by rubbernecking, so he gathered himself and quickly offered an apology out of embarrassment. Sarah accepted it in order to put the incident behind them.

Later, Jason used his connections to show her the inside of the old Milwaukee Arena. At first glance, Sarah thought the place was an abomination of architecture. There was no event scheduled, so the entire building was empty and dark. Jason cautioned her to never call this place by its corporate-sponsored label, which featured the name of some cellular phone company. He emphasized that this was THE Milwaukee Arena, the venue where Lew Alcindor had seized his first NBA championship, prior to his Islam-induced name change. The moment was fascinating, and a lack of discretion caused them to practically dry hump together in the parking lot.

The next day they barely spoke. During the trip home, Sarah remarked, “We shouldn’t keep trying to do this.”

Jason responded with boyish intensity. “Don’t be like that. We have to keep trying. It’s like practicing before a game. If we give up now, we’ll never know how far we could’ve gone.” His non-driving hand brushed the soft tendrils of hair away from her forehead. She rolled her eyes, laughing internally at how this man could turn any moment into a lame sports analogy.

Sarah wanted to leave the subject alone, but couldn’t. With bile rising in her throat, she blurted out, “But if we keep trying, what will happen when one of us gets hurt?”

Her comment injured the rhythm of the conversation, forcing Jason to ad-lib. He started speaking in an uncharacteristically whiny tone. “What’s on your mind, Sarah? You know that I love you. Are you afraid that I’m going to turn into an asshole or something?”

Sarah had a muted response when words, even if they were the wrong ones, urgently needed to be spoken. Her tongue remained paralyzed while she begged it to move. Her vocal cords were insubordinate workers that refused to do their job. Then the moment passed, and she was still in love with the emotional tsunami seated next to her.

Jason gently rubbed her knuckles as a symbol of affection, but it seemed more like desperation. That night, they kissed slowly and with passion, but this make-out session had the distinct aftertaste of sadness.

* * *

2002.

Last year, Jason Kincaid made only nineteen percent of the three-point shots he attempted and lost the starter’s position that he had battled fiercely to gain. By midseason, the Bucks traded him to Memphis for a second-round draft pick and cash considerations.

Jason immediately called Sarah for consolation. “Memphis! My God, why don’t they just murder me now? They can’t trade me! My shooting touch will come back. Everyone knows what I’m capable of on the court. And I am a goddamn leader in the locker room. Doesn’t that count for something?”

His words were soldiers on a reconnaissance mission searching for sympathy. Sarah rummaged through her mental warehouse. She couldn’t locate a single canned response, so she said nothing.

The silence cued Jason to continue his bitching. He griped about the pressures of the game, the money, and the constant nomadic lifestyle of a professional athlete. Cowardice was normally Sarah’s weapon of survival, but she was sick of hiding her feelings. For a moment, she abandoned her inherent need to please everybody else and offered Jason a viable explanation for his career problems.

“Jason, it’s the booze. You can practice basketball all you want, but you won’t play any better until you stop taking so many shots off court. And you know exactly what I mean.”

Her voice held a sarcastic twang that stung worse than the trade news. Jason failed to return her phone calls for two weeks.

One night in early March, he hit nine three pointers and tallied a career-high 32 points. Memphis still lost by four, but Jason’s tremendous showing had squeezed him back into a starting role.

The next evening, Sarah sat on the edge of the bed in a suburban Marriott, prepared to conjure up the patience necessary to tolerate Jason’s traditional tardiness. But he was surprisingly on time, moving with the charm of yesteryear. His clothes, black Armani slacks and a matching tank top, whispered a sense of coolness. Jason had adapted his look to accompany his lush five-day beard and mustache. Cashew-sized diamonds were staked in his previously unpierced earlobes. His eyes sparkled brighter than the gemstones. Within them, she saw his intention to bend and reshape the universe to his will. As she embraced this dominant male specimen, Sarah’s nipples tightened with arousal.

Jason dragged Sarah to his favorite nightspot. The bar called to him like a beacon of light and laughter. Sarah was apprehensive, mainly because his social orbits were so much wider than hers. She stood outside the entrance with that rush of anxiety people often have before walking into public settings. The club looked like God had emptied out a cultural grab bag inside. Bohemians, hippies, thugs, model-types, and drag queens all churned within its walls. Despite her nervousness, Sarah danced like a careless adolescent and enjoyed herself.

They spent a cheerful evening on Beale Street, enjoying the nightlife, listening to the blues, and watching the diverse mix of people. They got so caught up in the fun that they drank their dinner. Although she was also guilty of overindulgence, Sarah couldn’t believe a human body could contain the ocean of alcohol Jason ingested. But his reckless momentum thrilled her, so she didn’t try to stop it. In fact, she made love to it, repeatedly.

In the morning, Jason was trapped in the midst of a nasty hangover, kneeling in front of a hotel toilet. After his vomiting session, he tentatively ventured out the bathroom. They briefly made eye contact and Sarah said involuntarily, “We shouldn’t keep trying to do this.”

He reacted out of instinct. “Don’t be like that. Not now. Not today. You know I have to leave in a few minutes. I’m already going to be late for practice as it is.”

Jason got dressed partway, and then streaked back to the toilet. She despised the sounds of dry heaving and the scent of last night’s liquor on his breath.

* * *

2004.

Sarah had grown tired. Tired of hotel rooms and infrequent phone calls. Tired of rooting for an athlete chasing the spotlight, hoping that thirty-year-old legs could become nineteen again. Tired of being cast aside subtly. Tired of screaming God’s name in the throes of fake orgasms. Tired giving halfhearted blowjobs to a functioning alcoholic who denied his issues with the brashness of a raised middle finger.

Jason was hurt, so she couldn’t watch him play on television, struggling to defend some tattooed stud with a quick first step. It wasn’t a serious injury, according to ESPN, just a slightly tweaked hamstring. But he didn’t recuperate swiftly anymore, whether it was from leg injuries or two-day benders.

Despite her discontent, Sarah genuinely missed Jason. It had been months since they last seen each other and they desperately needed to talk. She thought of his roomy luxury loft with marble kitchen counters and leather furniture. She imagined Jason pretending to be an aristocrat without the burden of actually being one. It was enough for her to grab the phone and call him.

Sarah usually called Jason’s cellular phone, but tonight she dialed his home number. Nervous fingers pushed the buttons. When a female voice answered, she prayed that it was a wrong number or that he had moved abruptly without informing her. That had accidentally happened before, so it was a possibility.

“Is Jason there?” Sarah asked this simple question, yet her voice sounded as if she really didn’t want the answer.

“Jason! Some woman is on the phone for you.” The female voice was young. Distinctly southern belle, a bit loud, drenched in attitude, but definitely young. Young enough that she hadn’t started bounding between fad diets to maintain a slim figure. Young enough that her perky boobs still staunchly resisted gravity’s inevitable pull.

Some woman. Was that all she really was, after all this time? Once he corralled the telephone, Sarah demanded an answer. “Jason, have I been replaced?”

Even when he was tipsy, Jason was far too clever to act like a dumb male, but he tried to play the role nonetheless. “What?” He responded with a bogus sense of bewilderment.

Sarah regrouped quickly. “Okay, let me phrase this in your terms. Have you voided my contract?”

As always, the silence between the couple spoke volumes.

“We shouldn’t keep trying to do this.” Sarah uttered an obvious truth, and then hung up the phone abruptly before Jason could even attempt to lie.

Sarah drowned within an aquifer of her own tears. Searching for a mindless activity to keep her occupied, Sarah combed her unruly hair until it surrendered. After an hour of nonstop contemplation, she realized that she had never really listened to Jason Kincaid. He had hinted though countless basketball references that their relationship was just a game to him, but she fell in love anyway. She cursed herself for not keeping score prior to this moment. Then again, Sarah didn’t need to look at a sports section to figure out that she had just lost.

Sarah contemplated calling Jason again, but instead she retreated to the bedroom. She decided to leave him a voice mail message next week, sometime when he’d be at the practice facility or face down in a puddle of bourbon. After all, that was the best way to inform him about bad news; he had become hesitant to approach tough topics on the phone since his father’s passing. It wasn’t a good discussion for the phone anyway. It needed to be a front porch conversation like they used to have, with the sun falling down and lightning bugs hanging like ornaments underneath cottonwood trees.

Sarah’s back was unnaturally bent like a fragile question mark. It had throbbed all day, so she rested her sore vertebrae by lying on the bed. Sarah drifted into sleep after a few minutes of rubbing her plump, pregnant belly. She dreamed that night, imagining raising a baby boy that would hopefully inherit his father’s handsome face and soft jump shot, but none of his poisonous personality.