“Sit,” she tells him quietly.
Pops bristles on instinct. “I am sitting.”
“You were standing,” she shoots back.
Pops’s mouth twitches, caught. “Details.”
Sloane’s gaze softens—tiny, quick. “Save it for when we win.”
Pops lifts a brow. “Whenyou win?”
Sloane’s mouth tightens like she’s fighting a smile. “When.”
She turns toward the counter, grabs a granola bar, then pauses. Her eyes flick to the walker, then to Pops again.
“You’re staying home today,” she says.
It isn’t a question. And it isn’t a fight.
It’s…permission.
Pops looks defeated, and for a beat, I think he’s going to argue out of reflex—because he always does. Because being told what to do makes him itch.
But Sloane’s face doesn’t change. It stays calm. Firm. Loving in a way she pretends she isn’t capable of.
“You’re too tired,” she says softly, like she’s talking to a stubborn child. “And I’m not spending the entire game watchingyou suffer in the bleachers because you think you have to prove something.”
Pops’s jaw tightens.
Sloane steps closer and rests her hand on his forearm. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
The words hang in the air.
Pops exhales slowly. “You don’t want me there?”
Sloane’s eyes flash. “Don’t do that.”
Pops’s mouth twitches faintly. “Do what?”
“Make it sound like it’s about me,” she says, voice tight but controlled. “It’s about you not wrecking yourself.”
Pops studies her for a long beat.
Then, quietly, like it costs him more than he’d like to admit, he nods once.
“Okay,” he says.
Sloane’s shoulders loosen a fraction, like she just won a battle no one else saw.
She swallows hard and backs away before she can fall into the softness.
“Good,” she says briskly, like she didn’t just crack. “Text me during halftime.”
Pops lifts his mug. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sloane rolls her eyes and turns toward the door, grabbing her duffel.
As she passes me, her gaze flicks briefly to my brace, then up to my face.
