Blakely is already bouncing on her toes. “We’re about to be insufferable.”
Jade points at my face. “That ponytail? Aggressive. I love it.”
I can’t help it.
I laugh—small, surprised, real.
Jade’s smile softens like she caught it, too, like she’s proud of me for something I didn’t know I just did.
Blakely hooks her arm through mine. “Come on, Rhodes. Let’s get this conditioning workout over with.”
I glance at the doors of the gym, then back at my friends, and let myself take the step forward.
“Okay,” I say, voice steady. “Let’s do it.”
54
SLOANE
Senior Year; Championship Game
The gym smells like varnished wood mixed with popcorn and a whole lot of nerves.
It always has—every season, every tip-off, every moment that mattered—but tonight it feels louder. Like the air is packed too tight for my lungs to work right. Like the entire state of California is sitting in these bleachers, holding its breath, waiting to see if I’m going to turn into the version of myself that can finish this…or the version that still feels like she’s walking around with a hole cut straight through her ribs.
The banners on the wall get fuzzy when I look up at them, the faces in the crowd blurring together.
Because there should be one more person here.
There should be one more voice.
One more proud, loud whistle.
One more hand lifting to wave at me from the stands, like he can’t stand not being seen by his kid for even a second.
I don’t let myself look for him.
I learned the hard way that if I look for something that isn’t there, it can pull me under.
Coach calls our names for introductions. The crowd roars. Lights hit my face. I jog out with a smile that I’ve practiced in the mirror a hundred times since Pops died—wide enough to fool the cameras, steady enough to fool the people who want a story.
And then my eyes find them.
Courtside. Front row. Cameron’s broad shoulders angle toward the court like he’s guarding me even from a folding chair. His jaw is set, but his eyes are glass-bright in the way he thinks no one notices.
Logan is sitting next to an open seat, Cam on the other side of the empty space. Close enough that I can see the way his knee bounces when he’s trying to play it cool.
Logan is wearing my jersey. My number stretched over his chest.
But between them, the empty chair has a shirt stretched across the back, a cartoon basketball and bold letters reading:
I THE POINT GUARD
The breath leaves my body so fast it feels like a punch.
They made surehecould be here, even in spirit.
Logan catches my tear blurred stare and grins, like he’s proud of himself, but I know it’s really that he’s proud ofme.
