2:00 PM – Hospice Visit
The words sit there like a sentence.
My stomach rolls.
Pops follows my gaze and exhales. “Don’t make that face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
He snorts softly. “You’ve been making that face since they said the wordhospice.”
My throat burns. “I hate that word.”
“I know,” he says, voice gentler. “I don’t love it either.”
I swallow hard, forcing my eyes to stay dry. “I’ll be back from practice before they get here.”
Pops nods, then reaches out and squeezes my hand. His palm is warm. Familiar.
“You don’t have to do everything,” he says quietly.
I stiffen. “Yes, I do.”
His eyes sharpen. “No.”
I open my mouth, ready to argue, then snap it shut because my voice will crack if I try.
Pops watches me for a long moment. “Cameron’s coming by later,” he says, like he’s changing the subject for both of us. “Said he’d grab lunch after his morning lift.”
My chest tightens again—Cameron bouncing between campus and home, between being a brother and trying to be a kid in his own life. “Okay.”
“And Logan’s here,” Pops adds carefully.
Heat flashes up my neck. “I know.”
Pops’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Just…don’t eat each other alive today. I’m too tired to referee.”
“Tell him that,” I mutter.
Pops squeezes my hand again. “I’m tellingyou.”
I exhale hard, then stand. “Try to sleep. I’ll be back.”
He nods, eyes already drifting shut. “Go be great,” he murmurs.
The words hit me like a punch because I don’t know how to be great in a world where my dad is dying.
I slip out and close the door softly behind me.
In the hallway, Logan is still on the couch, exactly where I left him.
He doesn’t look up when I pass.
And somehow that feels like mercy.
There’s someone I need to talk to before practice. I make my way down the hall of the athletic center, hesitating for a moment before tapping on the partially opened door.
“Yeah,” Coach calls. “Come in.”
