I glare. “Don’t push it.”
His mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He scrolls, reading, frowning, and for a second—just a second—I’m not alone in it. Not alone in the search. Not alone in the impossible.
The grief is still there, and so is the fear.
But there’s also Logan beside me, stubborn and irritating and steady, refusing to run even when I wish he would.
I don’t thank him.
I don’t soften.
I don’t give him an inch.
But I don’t step away either.
And that feels like progress—small and furious and fragile.
Which is probably the only kind we’re going to get.
13
SLOANE
Winning is supposed to feel like relief.
Like your lungs finally unclench. Like your body can stop bracing.
The final buzzer sounds, and the gym erupts, our bench spilling onto the court. The crowd roaring like this is the most important thing in the world. Jade wraps me in a sweaty hug so hard my ribs complain, and Blakely presses into my other side, laughing breathlessly like she’s made of pure sunlight.
“We’rethatteam,” Jade says into my ear, voice vibrating with adrenaline. “Did you see their coach’s face? He looked like he wanted to call his therapist mid-timeout.”
Blakely snorts. “Jade, you can’t just assume everyone has a therapist.”
“They should,” Jade replies, dead serious. Then she pulls back and stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Rhodes. You were…weird tonight.”
I blink. “Weird?”
“Yes,” she says, pointing at my face like it’s evidence. “You did the thing where you’re here, but your soul is somewhere else.”
My throat tightens.
Blakely’s hand slides to my elbow, gentle. “Slo…”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Jade groans. “Oh my God. Stop saying that. You sound like a customer service bot.”
I glare at her. “I’m not a bot.”
“You’re a bot,” she insists. “A very athletic bot. But still.”
Blakely bumps my shoulder, softening it. “You don’t have to be fine with us.”
I swallow hard and turn toward the locker room before my face betrays me. “Can we just…get out of here?”
They follow without pushing, and for a few minutes it almost works—noise, movement, laughter, the familiar chaos of post-game routine. The locker room is bright and loud, music blasting from a speaker someone shouldn’t have, girls shouting over each other about stats and shots and that one ref who definitely hates us.
