Jade exhales. “Okay.” Her hand catches my elbow for a second, grounding me. “You want to be here?”
The question is gentle. Not judging.
I swallow hard. “Pops told me to come.”
Blakely’s expression tightens, then softens. “Of course he did.”
Jade nudges my shoulder. “Then we do what you always do. One rep at a time.”
I huff a breath. “That sounds like Logan’s PT guy.”
“Jason?” Blakely asks, brows lifting.
Jade snorts. “Everyone has a Jason. Mine is Coach yelling at me for missing a free throw.”
As if summoned, Coach whistles from across the court, voice booming. “Rhodes! Warmups! Let’s go!”
I flinch, then force my body to move.
Sneakers squeak.
Ball hits my palm.
The familiar weight settles into my hands like muscle memory. Like I’ve done this a thousand times, and I can do it again.
But my mind keeps slipping back?—
Pops’s left arm.
Pops’s face.
Pops in that wheelchair in the doorway like the house wasn’t built for this.
I miss a pass.
The ball smacks my shin and rolls away.
Coach whistles again. “Focus!”
I nod automatically. “Yes, Coach.”
My chest tightens.
I dribble harder. Faster. Like I can pound the fear out of my ribs.
Jade moves beside me during a water break, shoulder bumping mine. “Breathe,” she says under her breath.
I glare weakly. “You quoting Pops now?”
Jade’s smile is sad. “Someone has to.”
I swallow, blink hard, and stare at the court.
The lines are bright and clean and unforgiving.
Life keeps asking for performance.
Even when you’re breaking.
