But his eyes are clear.
They land on Sloane and soften.
“Kiddo,” he says.
Sloane moves to his right side immediately, taking his hand. “Hi.”
Pops’s fingers curl around hers—weak but deliberate.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “At least you showered. I can’t smell you from a mile away anymore.”
Sloane huffs a breath. “Don’t start.”
Pops’s mouth quirks. “I’d never.”
I stay a step back, hands in my pockets, giving them the space they need. Pops looks at me over Sloane’s shoulder.
“Hey, kid,” he says.
“Hey,” I answer. “How’re you feeling?”
He makes a face. “Like I got hit by a truck, and the truck won.”
Cameron snorts, a sound that’s half laugh, half pain.
The doctor comes in not long after—neurology. Calm voice, practiced kindness. She checks Pops’s strength, his speech, his gaze. Talks about stability, monitoring, PT testing today to make sure he’s okay to swallow certain liquids without adding thickener to decrease the risk of choking.
“If everything continues to look good,” she says, “we may be able to discharge him tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
The word drops into the room like fragile glass.
Sloane nods like she can handle it.
Cameron asks the practical questions.
Pops makes a sarcastic comment about hating hospital food.
And me?
I stand there and try not to think about how “tomorrow” means bringing him home to a house with a shower chair waiting.
Try not to think about what the left side of his body not working means for Sloane’s denial.
Try not to think about how last night won’t stay a secret forever.
When it’s time to go, Sloane squeezes Pops’s hand one more time.
“We’ll be back later,” she says.
Pops nods. “Go eat. Both of you.”
“Yes, Coach,” Sloane mutters automatically, and Pops’s eyes crinkle with tired satisfaction.
Outside the room, in the hallway, Sloane slows once more.
Her hand brushes mine again—brief, light.
