“Well… it’s not here.” I grin. “It’s kind of like an excursion.”
“Ooh. Intriguing.” She leans forward. “Okay, where?”
I check the time on my phone. “We actually have to get going, but you need to change your outfit first.”
She glances down at her jeans and T-shirt. “Really? Okay… what should I wear?”
“Shorts, a T-shirt, a sports bra, and tennis shoes.”
Her brows draw together, suspicion narrowing her gaze. “Are we going to work out? Because that’s not really my idea of a fun date.”
I laugh. “It’s not yoga or anything. But it is a little active, and you’ll be way more comfortable if you change.”
“All right.” She stands and stretches. “I’m slightly terrified of this surprise… but I trust you.”
About thirty minutes later, we’re pulling into the parking lot of a local gym. I spot several familiar cars already lined up. Miranda spots them too.
“Everyone’s here,” she says, confusion creeping in.
“Yeah.” I put the truck in park. “It’s a charity event for our nonprofit, Cranes Care.”
What I don’t tell her yet is that I asked Penny to set up an impromptu basketball charity game. My hockey team has a few days off before the playoffs, and every single guy agreed to show up on short notice. All because I asked. All because they know what Miranda means to me… and how much this could mean to her.
I have no idea how she will react. It could backfire. It could crack her open in ways I’m not prepared for. But deep down, I hope this brings her joy. I hope it reminds her of the part of herself she buried. I hope it heals a part of her heart.
I jump out and circle to her side, pulling her door open and offering my hand.
“Come on,” I say, my voice soft but full of excitement. “This is going to be fun.”
She slips her hand into mine—warm and trusting.
We step into the gymnasium, and the echo of bouncing basketballs immediately fills the air. All the guys are already warming up—dribbling, passing, taking wild shots that clank off the rim. It’s surreal seeing them in loose shorts and sleeveless shirts instead of layers of pads and heavy hockey gear.
Beside me, Miranda’s steps slow. Her grip tightens around my hand.
“Miles…” she whispers, hesitation threading through my name. “What is this?”
We stop in the doorway, the fluorescent lights humming above us. I squeeze her hand gently. “We’re going to play some impromptu basketball.”
She turns her face upward, eyes wide. “I don’t want to play,” she says instantly, shaking her head. “I haven’t played since I was fifteen.”
“I know,” I murmur. “I know.”
I turn toward her fully, cupping her hand between both of mine.
“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do,” I say softly. “But I really, really think you should try.”
She swallows, her throat bobbing, her eyes glistening with a hundred emotions.
“You loved basketball,” I continue. “It was a part of you. A good part. And it was taken from you… robbed from you… andthen twisted into something ugly. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to lose something you loved because someone else ruined it.”
Her breath catches.
“I kept thinking,” I say, voice thickening, “what if someone made it so I could never play hockey again? What if one person destroyed the thing that made me feel likeme? It’s unthinkable and not fair.”
Her eyes flick away—to the court, to the guys laughing, to the ball rolling across the polished wood. She’s trembling, but she’s listening.
“I know basketball brings up heavy memories,” I tell her. “But I also believe that if you play… if you even justtry… it will fill you with joy again. Real joy.”
