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I try to picture it, what my life is going to look like in six months. Option One: I go first round. I end up on the East Coast, with one of the teams that’s been after me since the season started. New city. New apartment. New everything. I wake up, go to practice, and grind every damn day to prove I belong there, that I deserve the spot I was given. I go home to an empty place. I eat dinner alone. I stare at my phone, wondering if she’s thought about me, wondering if she even cares where I ended up. Wondering if she’s still here, on campus, finishing her last semester, pretending we never happened. Option Two: The exact same thing—except Madison is there. Except she’s waiting for me after practice, curled up on my couch, stealing my hoodies like they belong to her. Except we’re cooking dinner together, laughing as she burns the garlic bread, sneaking kisses while the TV plays in the background. Except she’s in the crowd at my first game, wearing my number, her hands tucked into the sleeves of my oversized sweatshirt, proud of me. Mine. I blink hard, forcing my grip to loosen on the wheel. But that future? It doesn’t exist.
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