But all I can think is that my father is standing with a walker in my gym wearing my number like it’s a badge he wants to carry before he can’t.
And Logan brought him.
Logan—who I told I didn’t have space for—put Pops in my world anyway.
Like he knew I needed it.
The horn blares, bringing us into the final minutes before tip-off.
Coach calls us in for final words. Jade and Blakely flank me like bodyguards.
Coach’s voice is steady, practical. “Energy. Defense first. Rhodes, you run the floor, you lead with your voice, and you trust your teammates.”
I nod. “Yes, Coach.”
Jade leans in and whispers, “Don’t look at the stands again until halftime.”
I glare. “I can do what I want.”
Blakely murmurs, “Maybe listen to her.”
I exhale. “Fine.”
The ball goes up.
And suddenly I’m in it.
The first quarter is fast, physical, loud. My body does what it knows—cuts, screens, drives, hard stops that make my knees burn.
I hit my first three, and the crowd cheers.
I don’t look at Pops.
I don’t let myself.
Because if I look, I’ll feel it too much.
At the end of the first quarter, we’re up by four. Jade shoves my shoulder. “See? You’re alive.”
I huff a breath. “Barely.”
Blakely smiles faintly. “That counts.”
The second quarter is messier. I miss two shots I normally don’t miss. Coach calls a timeout and grabs my face with his eyes.
“Rhodes,” he says, quiet but firm. “Be here.”
I swallow hard and nod. “I’m here.”
He studies me for a beat like he knows I’m lying by a fraction, then squeezes my shoulder. “Okay. Then do the next play right.”
I do.
We go into halftime up by six.
I jog toward the bench, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin.
And I look up.
