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AT STANFORD, JASON,  Jarron, and I became friends. All basketball players, we ran in the same social circles. There was no romance at that point. I hadn't gone to college to look for a husband. I was focused on my schoolwork and my dream: becoming a pro athlete. When I graduated in 2001, I achieved my goal, getting drafted into the WNBA by the Phoenix Mercury, then signing a contract with a pro team in France. That year, I saw Jason unexpectedly in Dallas while traveling for business. I'd gone to a basketball game with friends, and there he was, playing with the New Jersey Nets. We agreed to meet up after the game. When we did, we looked at each other and almost simultaneously asked why we hadn't dated in college. I felt incredibly attracted to him. I always had been— I'd just been too shy and focused on my goals to show it. During our conversation, I lost track of time. He had this natural, easygoing way about him that just pulled me in. I remember having this exciting rush of emotion, because I could picture myself with him for the long-term. We were very compatible, with our shared athleticism and academic background, and his height was a bonus. It seemed like a given that we would become a couple, and we did, albeit a long-distance one. Jason and I talked on the phone and saw each other when we could. Our schedules as pro athletes made things challenging. I returned to the U.S. from France in 2002 and signed a contract with the WNBA, this time with the Miami Sol. Jason's home base was L.A., but his team at the time was in New Jersey. In the off-season, we had more time together. We loved working out, playing golf and tennis, just hanging out and talking about our lives. We understood each other in a way that others couldn't. We knew what it was like to travel with a team from one hotel room to the next. We talked about what it was like to be traded to another team, to have grueling schedules and back-to-back games. We pushed each other to be our best. On one visit, I remember taking a nap after a day of hard training, and he woke me up by rubbing a rose across my face, telling me how much he believed in me. Another time, he told me that I was his soul mate and I was meant for him.  When I began thinking about graduate school at the University of Southern California, Jason supported my ultimate decision to enroll. I wanted to put down some roots and cut down on all the travel. We agreed that it would be a good time to start this new phase of my life. ----- I can't imagine what it's like to go through all the stages he has gone through, all the deep layers. I don't know what it's like to wear a mask for 34 years. It's sad that society puts that kind of pressure on a person. I also understand the macho stereotypes men face in the NBA. I ran up against a reverse stereotype in the WNBA: People said I was too "feminine" to be a pro player. I quickly proved them wrong, showing that my nail polish and dresses had nothing to do with my ability to compete on the court. I empathize with Jason and support him. But at the same time, I remain deeply hurt by him. I wish he could have been honest with me years ago. I feel like there are two Jasons now—the man I fell in love with and the man I'm trying so hard to understand. He's being hailed as a pioneer, but I believe true heroism is a result of being honest with yourself and with those you love. Article is edited and excerpted below and to the side. By Richard Foulser - Cosmopolitan (Images and Article) A MONTH BEFORE I was set to marry the man I loved, he called off the wedding. I had no idea why. He and I had been together for eight years. We had planned to have children, build a family. Nearly four years later, I got my answer. My former fiancé, Jason Collins, a pro basketball player with the Washington Wizards, announced last spring in Sports Illustrated that he is gay. Jason told me he's gay over the phone on a Monday morning in April, the same day the magazine hit newsstands. However, he didn't mention the article—that came as a surprise when I heard about it from a friend. In his essay, Jason wrote that he'd once been engaged to a woman. Reporters zoomed in on me, thrusting my name into the news. My in-box exploded with e-mails from women saying the same thing had happened to them. I'm sharing what I've learned from my experience in hopes that it might help others. The day Jason canceled the wedding was surreal. It was July of 2009, and he had just returned home from a road trip with his twin brother, Jarron. I had been living with Jason in Los Angeles for the previous year, ever since our engagement. He told me, "You may want to sit down." I loved this man deeply. He was intelligent, good-humored, handsome, and importantly, taller than I am—7 feet. (I'm 6 feet 5 and a former pro basketball player myself.) His words didn't make sense to me, and they hit me hard, freezing my heart. "I'm just not sure," he said. There were no tangible reasons, no explanations. I opened the front door and ran, my mind spinning with questions. I wanted answers. I'm an analytical person, a planner. I make things work. I wanted to know what was wrong so I could fix it. I thought perhaps something was wrong with me. I kept running until I ran out of breath. When I returned, he tried to calm me, but I couldn't stop crying. The first time I laid eyes on Jason, I had been running as well. It was the fall of 1997, the first day of my freshman year at Stanford University. I had just gone out for a jog when I ran smack into Jason and Jarron—two towering, stunning guys. I stopped and introduced myself, thrilled to meet people who were actually taller than I am. I was attracted to Jason but shy. We had a brief chat, and I kept running. I called my mom that night and said, "I think I'm going to be at home at Stanford—I feel normal, like I fit in." I hadn't exactly been "normal" growing up in Minneapolis. For one thing, I had rocketed to 6 feet tall by sixth grade. I embraced my height, learning everything from hockey to ballet; I was both a tomboy and a girlie girl. When I discovered basketball, I truly found myself. I loved the rhythm, the artistry of the game. It was like dancing on the court. I excelled, winning a gold medal in the Junior Olympics, and college recruiters came calling. I chose Stanford because academics were as important to me as athletics. OVER THE NEXT few years, I got my master's and started my own business in L.A., Fitt4Life, as a certified personal trainer, nutrition consultant, and yoga instructor. Jason was traded to a team in Memphis, then Minnesota. I began to feel like it was taking forever for him to propose, but I knew he'd do it when he was ready. We'd discussed marriage, but we were young, in our 20s. I felt sure it would happen by 30. Finally, on a trip to Mexico in 2008, some seven years after we had begun our relationship, he finally said the words I had waited so long to hear. We'd been swimming with dolphins, eating fresh seafood, having an amazing time. Over dinner on our last night, he started out slowly, saying, "I've been thinking about my life, what I want." I felt like finishing the sentence for him. Then he said, "I wanted to ask if you would marry me." I remember feeling overwhelmed with joy and also thinking: finally. I was almost 30. In the air on the way home, I saw my future unfolding before me. I pictured our family: intelligent, athletic, tall, dynamic. I could hardly wait to get off the plane to start making plans for the wedding. Soon after, Jason and I moved in together in L.A. We cooked at home and enjoyed having barbecues. We discussed our future plans, agreeing that we both wanted children. I felt grounded in the knowledge that he wanted kids. Family is very important to me. A year later, he canceled the wedding, throwing me into a tailspin. Up to that point, everything I'd ever wanted, I had achieved through hard work and sheer determination. When I couldn't get answers from Jason on what had gone wrong, I questioned myself and what I could have done better or differently. I should have been questioning him, but I didn't think to do so at all. In the years that followed, I dated other men, I built up my business, I had a full life. But when it came to Jason, deep sadness and confusion remained. The phone call this April ended the mystery. He left a message on a Sunday, saying, "I have something important to talk about—please call me back." I was working and called the next morning. He uttered an eerily familiar phrase: "You may want to sit down." Then he said, "Carolyn, I'm gay." I was stunned. I managed to say, after a silent moment and then a deep breath, "I had no idea. I'm sure a huge weight is off your shoulders." During all the years I had known him, I never would have guessed that he would come out as gay. We talked again briefly that night. He answered a few questions, but there was much left to discuss and he said he had to go. As I tell this story, it has been several weeks since he told me his news and he has made no further time to talk, despite saying he would do so. I am sad that the media seems to be a higher priority. I hope this changes in the coming weeks, as I value open dialogue more than anything. Read the whole article here:   Cosmopolitan