𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 • Nika Mühl

one.

The lights of the hospital waiting room cast their harsh glow, making everything feel more intense, more surreal. I sat in a wheelchair, my basketball shorts and UConn hoodie doing little to ward off the chill that seeped into my bones. Painkillers dulled the agony in my knee to a dull throb, but the anxiety gnawed at me like a dog with a bone. My eyes were glued to the scuffed tiles, thoughts racing but going nowhere.

Suddenly, I heard Azzi's voice cut through the fog of my worries, a welcome distraction. She was talking to the doctor, her tone calm and polite as always. Moments later, she approached me, a small, reassuring smile on her face. I tried to smile back, but my mouth felt like it was stuck.

"Hey, how you feeling?" she asked, leaning down to catch my gaze, her curls bouncing with the movement.

"Like shit," I shot back, blunt and unapologetic.

Azzi's smile faltered just a bit, but she recovered quickly. "Well, at least you're out of surgery. That's a start, right?"

I rolled my eyes, letting out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, because sitting in a wheelchair is my idea of a good time."

"Save me the attitude, bro," Azzi said, giving my arm a playful slap. I opened my mouth to complain, ready to tell her that hitting hospital patients was not cool, but it felt good just to be with her. For a moment, my thoughts paused, and I could vent to Azzi, just for fun.

We kept talking as she helped me into the car. "You know the team missed you a lot, even Nika," she said, glancing at me as she started the engine.

I raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on my face. We held each other's gaze for a moment, and then I burst out laughing. "Okay, little bro, who are you lying to?" A bittersweet smirk tugged at my lips.

"I'm serious, Jules. The team in general has been off without you. They're out here struggling."

"Nah, y'all got this," I replied, brushing off her words. I was just one player. How could I possibly be that important?

"So do you," Azzi said, nudging me as we drove. The topic of my injury tensed me up. I didn't want pity or reassurance; I just wanted to be back on the court. "Trust me, I know it's not easy, but I know you. You're stronger than you think."

I managed a small smile, scrolling through my phone, desperately trying to distract myself. Azzi's gaze lingered on me, a mix of pity and determination swirling in her eyes. "Don't give up on yourself, J."

But I couldn't respond. Instead, I put on my headphones, diving into the chaos of social media. I swiped past texts from my managers about physio appointments and media events, stopping at a name from my past. I had always wanted to reach out, but I never knew how. Some said they were a bad influence, but to me, they were the one person who stood by me through it all. The urge to text them surged, but not for the reasons I originally imagined. It was a craving I promised myself I wouldn't give in to.

As we drove back to campus, guilt gnawed at me for barely acknowledging Azzi during the ride. Finally, I broke the silence, my voice soft. "Thanks for this, Az. You didn't have to."

"Please, I should be thanking you," she replied, trying to lighten the mood. "Geno was livid about our plays. He was about to make us run suicides."

I smiled slightly. "Y'all can't have been that bad."

"That's the thing—we weren't! Geno's been scrambling to find new plays that don't include you, and barely any of them are working," she explained, her tone light.

"You'll be fine. Just don't stress," I reassured her, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted, even though I felt the complete opposite inside.

When we reached campus, Azzi handed me my crutches, leaving the wheelchair behind after my insistence. Leaning heavily on the crutches, I made my way to the court, Azzi chattering away about everything I'd missed.