“I can skip,” I say anyway, because I’m me.
Pops’s expression goes flat. “No.”
I flinch. “Pops?—”
“You’re going,” he says, and his voice is rougher now, the words shaped carefully. “You’re not going to stop living because my body decided to be an asshole.”
My throat burns. “It’s not the same.”
“I know,” he says gently. “But it’s part of it. And I’m not gonna watch you drop everything you love just to prove you love me.”
Cameron looks away fast, jaw clenched.
Logan’s gaze flicks to Cameron, then back to me, steady.
Pops’s eyes soften. “Go run your ass on that court. Come home after. Yell at your brother for hovering. Make fun of Logan. Whatever you need to do. Just…go.”
A laugh tries to claw its way out of me and fails.
“I don’t make fun of Logan,” I say automatically.
Logan’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “She’s lying.”
Pops’s eyes crinkle. “Good. I like him.”
Cameron makes a sound of protest. “Pops.”
Pops’s gaze slides to Cameron. “What? I’m allowed.”
Cameron mutters, “You’re the worst.”
Pops’s crooked smile deepens. “And yet, I raised you.”
For a second—just a second—the room feels like our house again. Not a hospice home. Not a medical setup. Just a family arguing lightly because that’s what we do when we’re scared.
Then Pops rubs his temple, subtle, quick.
Cameron sees it instantly. His shoulders tense.
“I’m fine,” Pops says before anyone can ask.
Cameron’s voice goes flat. “Sure.”
Pops’s eyes flick to Logan. “You still got those ice packs stocked?”
Logan nods. “Yeah.”
“Good,” Pops says, then looks at me like he’s delivering orders. “And you—go practice. I want updates.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Okay.”
Pops’s right hand lifts in a weak shooing motion. “Go.”
I back toward the doorway like leaving him feels wrong, like it’s a betrayal.
Cameron follows me into the hallway, voice low so Pops won’t hear.
“You don’t have to go,” he says, and I hear it now—fear, wrapped in control.
