—
I put the shirt on in my room with the door shut like I’m committing a crime.
It fits. Of course it fits. Pops bought it in a men’s large because he’s always been delusional about sizing and optimism.
The mirror shows a limping wide receiver with a knee brace and a chest that reads like a Valentine’s Day gag.
I THE POINT GUARD
Jesus.
I grab my hoodie to cover it, then stop.
Pops said don’t.
So I leave the hoodie on the bed and walk out like I have no dignity.
Pops is back in his recliner by the time I come through the living room, blanket over his legs, TV muted. He lifts his eyes, sees the shirt, and his smile is immediate.
“Perfect,” he says, like I’m a masterpiece.
I roll my eyes. “You owe me.”
Pops hums. “Put it on my tab.”
I pause at the front door, hand on the knob.
“Text me,” Pops says.
“I will,” I promise.
“And Logan?”
I look back.
His face is softer now. Smaller, somehow. Not physically…just…dimmer.
“You’re doing good,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens.
I force a smile. “Tell that to my knee.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “Tell it to your heart too.”
I swallow, nod once, and leave before my throat can betray me.
—
The gym is loud.
Not just noise—energy.
Bleachers packed, students in school colors, the pep band beating the same rhythm into everyone’s bones. The smell is popcorn and sweat and adrenaline.
I find a seat near the front because Pops would be near the front.
I sit where he’d sit.
