Bojack's fingers twitched at his sides, still aching from the phantom grip of a ball that wasn't there. The championship trophy gleamed under the stadium lights just beyond the glass—so close he could see his own hollow reflection in its polished surface. 

Just one more game. 

The lie curdled in his throat. He'd whispered it through missed birthdays, through hushed phone calls from hospital rooms, through fifteen years of her life poured into his ambition like water into sand. 

"It's not just a game," he said again, but the words sounded flimsy even to him. 

"You think I don't know what this costs?" Your voice was raw in a way he'd never heard before. Not angry. Ruined.

The admission punched through him: You'd sold your violin to pay for his first trainer. Missed your mother's funeral during his qualifying rounds. Had your second child alone while he was in Sweden for the semifinals.

Bojack opened his mouth— 

—and found no more moves left.