More tired.
He’s smiling, but there’s a faint slackness at the corner of his mouth that wasn’t there last month, like holding the smile takes effort.
I jog over, heart hammering.
“Hey,” I say, breathless.
Pops’s eyes shine. “Hell of a game.”
I grin, then it wobbles. “I’m glad you came.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, voice rougher than usual.
Logan clears his throat. “We should head out before the crowd crushes.”
Pops nods, then grips the walker handles.
He takes a step.
Then another. Slow. Measured.
Every movement is deliberate.
My chest tightens with helpless anger.
I fall into step on Pops’s other side without thinking. “I’ve got you.”
Pops scoffs. “I’vegot me.”
“Sure,” I mutter.
Logan’s mouth twitches faintly, but his eyes are serious.
We move through the gym together—my father between Logan and me, my number on his chest, a walker in front of him, and my world reduced to the sound of rubber tips on the floor and my own heartbeat.
Outside, the night air is crisp—California winter crisp—cool enough to raise goosebumps on my damp skin.
Pops exhales like the air feels good. “Whew.”
Logan guides him toward the car, moving carefully, like he’s practiced this already.
I hate that he has.
I also—quietly—love that he has.
When Pops is settled in the passenger seat, Logan shuts the door gently.
Then he looks at me.
“Good game,” he says.
I cross my arms, trying to protect myself from how full my chest feels. “You already said that.”
Logan’s mouth curves. “Still true.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did Cameron make you wear that shirt?”
Logan glances down at the CSU logo. “He offered.”
