We start practice like we always do—lines, layups, passing drills. The rhythm of it should drag me into my body.
It doesn’t.
My hands catch the ball, my feet move, my brain counts reps and steps and angles like muscle memory is trying to save me.
But my thoughts keep sliding away from the court.
Palliative consult. Hospice. Months.
Pops in a recliner with a blanket.
Pops saying,home.
The ball hits my palms too hard, and I fumble it. The sound echoes.
Coach’s voice snaps across the gym. “Sloane. Focus.”
“Got it,” I say automatically.
I don’t.
We run sets. I miss a cut. I hesitate on a pass. Jade throws me a look likewhat the hell are you doing?
At one point, I’m at the free throw line, and the gym goes too quiet in my head. The ball feels heavy. My arms feel detached from my body.
I bounce it once.
Twice.
I picture Pops’s hands folded in his lap in that office.
I picture the doctor’s mouth forming the wordterminal.
My throat tightens.
I shoot.
The ball rims out.
A few girls groan.
Coach blows the whistle. “Again.”
My hands shake as I retrieve the ball.
Again.
Again and again.
By the time practice ends, my body is sweating, and my lungs burn, and I feel none of it. Like I ran through the entire thing underwater.
The team starts dispersing. People are talking about weekend plans and finals and some guy who slid into someone’s DMs.
I stand at my locker and stare at my bag like it’s a foreign object.
Jade and Blakely flank me on either side without making it obvious.
They’ve been doing that since sophomore year.
