Pops’s gaze flicks to my shirt again, and his mouth twitches. “Damn right I was.”
Sloane groans. “Oh my God.”
Pops chuckles—real, warm, rough laughter.
The sound fills the room.
It makes my chest ache and loosen at the same time.
Pops looks at me, and his voice drops, softer. “Thank you for taking me with you.”
My throat burns.
I nod once, because if I speak, I’ll break.
Pops leans back, eyes heavy. “All right. I’m done being awake. Go…go celebrate your win or whatever.”
Sloane’s voice is tight. “We’re not?—”
Pops lifts a brow. “You’re not what. Happy? Allowed to be happy? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Sloane’s jaw clenches.
Pops’s gaze shifts to me, pointed. “Make sure she eats.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Yes, Coach.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “Good.”
His eyes drift closed again.
Sloane stands there for a beat, staring at him like she’s trying to memorize the rise and fall of his chest.
Then she turns sharply toward the hallway.
“I’m showering,” she says, voice too clipped.
I nod. “Okay.”
She pauses like she wants to say something else.
Instead, she adds, quieter, “Thanks…for today.”
Then she disappears into her room before the words can cost her more.
I stand in the living room, the stupid shirt still on my chest, Pops asleep ten feet away, the house humming with quiet grief.
It shouldn’t feel like hope.
But it does, even just a little.
Enough to make the weight bearable—at least for tonight.
26
SLOANE
The problem with winning is that everyone expects you to celebrate it.
