And as the street turns toward home, I realize the “final-ish” conversation wasn’t really about death.
It was about love.
About what survives after.
About who will still be standing when he isn’t.
And whether I’m brave enough to be one of them.
24
SLOANE
Coach doesn’t saylast weekout loud.
He doesn’t have to.
It’s in the way he blows the whistle a little sharper. It’s in the way he makes us run one more set even when our legs are jelly, like he’s trying to squeeze every ounce of grit out of us before the season decides whether we deserve to keep breathing it.
Win the next game, and we move on.
Lose, and it’s over.
Junior year—done.
Just like that.
Which is ridiculous, because my dad is dying in our living room, and somehow I’m still supposed to care about a scoreboard.
And I do.
I hate that I do.
“Again,” Coach barks as we reset for another defensive drill.
My sneakers squeak against the hardwood as I slide, thighs burning, lungs tight. Jade is across from me, grinning like a menace even as sweat drips down her temple.
“Looking a little slow, Rhodes,” she chirps.
“Sounding a little mouthy,” I shoot back automatically, planting hard and cutting the angle.
Blakely swings around behind Jade, calm as a storm cloud. “If you two flirt any harder, I’m transferring.”
“Shut up,” Jade says, laughing through her breath.
My chest loosens—just for a second.
This is what the court gives me.
A place where my brain can’t hold every fear at once, because my body has demands, and the demands are simple: move, breathe, don’t fall.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the air again. “Scrimmage. Two minutes. Full intensity.”
The ball snaps into motion.
For the first thirty seconds, I’m locked in. I call screens. I cut baseline. I set a pick and roll off it with a clean pop, muscle memory doing what it does best.
Then a thought slips in like a knife between ribs.
