I move instinctively, muscle memory carrying me through cuts, pivots, jumps. My body listens. My mind goes quiet.
This is where I’m best.
On a fast break, I drive hard to the basket, absorb contact, and finish through it. The sound of sneakers on hardwood, the echo of the ball hitting the floor—it all drowns everything else out.
Blakely clips my arm as we run back down the court. “Relax, killer,” she mutters. “You’re playing like you’re mad at something.”
“Maybe I am,” I shoot back.
Jade meets my eyes from the perimeter, something knowing in her expression.
Water break finally comes. I drop onto the bench, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my temples.
“You’re aggressive today,” Blakely says, flopping down beside me. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re always a little psycho, but today is extra.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” Jade answers. “In a way that suggests you’re avoiding something.”
I glare at both of them. “You’re both exhausting, and I truly hope neither of you is pursuing a degree in counseling.”
“And yet,” Blakely says, sipping her water, “we’re right.”
I don’t respond, because if I do, I might admit that every time I drive toward the basket, I think about Logan learning how to stand again or how I feel like my life is teetering on the edge of a giant canyon filled with every last one of my biggest fears.
I hate that my brain does that.
Jade hums softly as she packs her bag after practice, some old song I recognize but can’t place.
“You coming to dinner?” she asks.
“I can’t,” I say. “Family stuff.”
Blakely pauses mid-sock. “How’s Pops?”
“Fine,” I answer.
The word feels brittle the moment it leaves my mouth.
Jade studies me for a moment, then nods. She doesn’t push. That’s why she’s dangerous. She’ll let you sit there with the guilt that she knows you’re not telling her the truth and let you think you got away with it, even when you didn’t.
The January air bites at my skin when I step outside, the coolness sharp after the heat of practice. The drive home feels longer than usual.
The house is quiet when I walk in.
Too quiet.
Logan’s crutches are leaned neatly against the wall. His shoes sit by the door, lined up carefully, like he’s trying not to take up too much space.
It irritates me that I notice these small things about him. Bothers me even more that I know him well enough to know why he did it.
Pops is in the living room, lights low, TV murmuring softly. He’s sitting on the couch with one hand pressed to his temple.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my bag. “You okay?”
“Just a headache,” he replies. His voice is even but tired.
My breath catches in my throat.
