Beck shows up late morning, knocking twice before opening the door like he’s done a hundred times before.
“Jesus,” he says when he sees me. “You look like hell.”
“Good to see you too,” I reply.
He grins and pulls me into a careful hug, mindful of my leg. He smells like cold air and coffee and the faint metallic tang of the weight room.
After playing together for the last three years and living together just as long, I consider Beck Harrison to be one of my closest friends and one hell of a linebacker. He’s headed straight for the NFL, if that’s what he decides to do.
“Hey now,” he says, stepping back and looking me over. “You’re standing up at least.”
“Barely.”
“Progress is progress,” he declares like it’s a fact and not a guess, then gestures toward my brace. “You in the ‘I hate everything’ phase or the ‘I’m fine’ phase?”
I snort. “Both.”
“That’s my guy.”
Pops comes out of the kitchen, and Beck lights up instantly. “Hey, Coach!”
Pops chuckles. “I retired years ago, kid.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Beck says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Will always be one of the greatest basketball coaches in my book. Even if I wasn’t destined to do more than inbound a few times in the third grade.”
That earns Beck a real laugh from Pops—one of those warm, genuine laughs that makes the whole room feel lighter. For a second, I can pretend everything is fine.
Then Pops’s smile falters on the exhale.
Just for a beat.
Beck notices it. I see him notice. His gaze flicks to Pops’s face, then to me, then away again like he’s trying not to make it obvious.
They talk for a bit about Beck’s girlfriend, his draft probabilities, which team he’d really want to go to. Beck listens closely, eyes tracking Pops’s movements more than the conversation.
He notices it too.
When Pops rubs his temple again, Beck’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Pops keeps talking like nothing is happening, but his words slow down in places. Not slurred. Just…delayed. Like he has to reach for the next sentence.
Maybe it’s the headache.
Maybe it’s the fatigue.
Maybe it’s something else.
After a while, Pops exhales and pushes himself up carefully. “I’m going to lie down for a bit. I think there’s a squirrel in my head trying to crack open some nuts.”
“Want anything?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Just need a little quiet.”
He looks at Beck and offers a small smile. “You boys behave.”
Beck grins. “Always.”
Pops disappears down the hall, the door to his room clicking shut softly behind him.
