I find another one in LA.
Not eligible.
Another one in Seattle.
Not eligible.
It’s like the universe is playing a game where the answer is always no.
My phone buzzes with a reminder:
Practice – 2:00 PM
Basketball practice.
Like that matters.
Like running suicides will undo what’s happening in my father’s brain.
I stare at the notification until my chest tightens with anger.
Then I lock it down.
I throw my phone into my bag like it’s the problem.
I walk out the door like I’m not carrying a ticking clock inside me.
The gym is loud.
Sneakers squeak. Balls bounce. Voices echo. Music thumps from someone’s speaker. The air smells like sweat and wood polish and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline.
It should feel familiar.
It should feel safe.
Instead, it feels like stepping into a world that doesn’t know it’s about to lose me.
Jade spots me first.
She’s already in warmups, hair in braids, grin sharp as ever. She lifts a hand. “Rhodes! You look like you’ve been personally victimized by daylight.”
I force a smile. “That’s because I have.”
Blakely jogs up behind her, ponytail swishing, eyes softening when she gets close enough to read my face.
“Hey,” she says, quieter. “You okay?”
“Yep,” I lie too fast.
Jade narrows her eyes like she’s filing it away. She always notices more than she pretends to.
Blakely bumps her shoulder lightly. “Don’t interrogate her.”
“I’m not interrogating,” Jade says, offended. “I’m observing.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out wrong.
Coach whistles and calls us in.
