“Don’t be late,” she says.
I lift a brow. “Are you my mom now?”
Her mouth twitches. “Someone has to be.”
Then she’s gone, front door closing softly behind her.
The house exhales.
Pops stares at the closed door for a second too long, coffee mug warm between his hands like he’s anchoring himself to something simple.
I don’t speak.
Because if I speak, I’ll say something that makes it real.
Pops clears his throat like he’s resetting.
“All right,” he says, voice lighter now. “Since she’s gone…”
My gaze flicks to him. “Since she’s gone, what?”
Pops pushes his chair back and stands, grabbing the counter for support. Then he shuffles toward the laundry room like he’s on a mission.
I follow because I don’t completely trust him not to faceplant.
He disappears for a moment, and I hear him rummaging through a drawer.
When he comes back, he’s holding a T-shirt in both hands, grinning like a fool.
He presents it to me with an expression that is way too pleased with itself.
“Wear this,” he says.
I blink. “What isthat?”
Pops unfolds it with a flourish that would make Cameron proud.
The white of the shirt is a little dimmer from being washed a few too many times, a cartoon basketball, and right across the chest:
I THE POINT GUARD
I stare at it, absolutely horrified.
Pops beams like he just handed me a trophy.
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
“Oh, I’m serious,” he replies. “This is my lucky shirt.”
“That is not a lucky shirt,” I argue, because there is no way in hell I am wearingthat.
Pops’s eyes narrow. “Excuse your ass. That shirt has seen more wins than you have.”
I snort. “That’s not even?—”
He lifts a hand. “Don’t start. Wear it.”
I look down at the shirt again, and my chest tightens. It’s ridiculous. It’s embarrassing. It’s exactly Pops.
