I step inside and close the door behind me, quieter than I mean to. Coach is at his desk, glasses low on his nose, watching film on a laptop. He looks up, and the second his eyes land on my face, something in his expression shifts—focus softening into concern.
“Rhodes,” he says carefully. “You okay?”
I swallow. My throat feels too small for the truth.
“I need to tell you something,” I manage.
Coach leans back in his chair, setting his pen down like he knows this isn’t about practice, isn’t about missed shots or defensive rotations.
“Okay,” he says. “Talk to me.”
I take a breath that doesn’t do anything.
“It’s my dad,” I say, and my voice cracks on the word like my body is trying to protect me by breaking first. “His cancer…it’s not…it’s not responding anymore.”
Coach’s face stills. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to fill the space with false comfort.
I force the words out anyway, because if I stop, I’m going to fall apart right here on his carpet.
“They gave us…a timeline,” I say quietly. “And hospice is—” I blink hard, stare at the edge of his desk like it’s something solid. “Hospice is involved now.”
For a second, Coach doesn’t speak. He just nods once, slow, like he’s absorbing the weight of it with me.
“Sloane,” he says, voice lower now, gentler. “I’m so sorry.”
I nod like I’m hearing him from underwater.
“I didn’t want to miss anything,” I blurt, because that’s the truth that’s been clawing at me. “Practice. Games. I know it sounds selfish but?—”
“It doesn’t,” he cuts in immediately. Firm. No hesitation. “It doesn’t sound selfish.”
My eyes burn.
Coach stands, moving around the desk, stopping a few feet away like he’s giving me space to breathe.
“You do not owe me basketball right now,” he says. “You don’t owe the team anything. You owe yourself—your family—whatever you need to get through this.”
I shake my head once, automatically. “I don’t know how to stop. If I stop, I’ll—” I press my lips together. “I’ll drown.”
Coach nods again, like he understands that too.
“Then we do it your way,” he says. “If being here helps you breathe, we keep you here. If you need time off, you take it. If you need to come and sit on the bench and not run a single drill, you do that. You want to disappear for a week and not answer a text? You do that too.”
A small, broken laugh tries to escape me. It comes out more like a sob.
Coach’s gaze holds mine, steady and solid.
“I can lighten your load,” he says. “But you have to let me. Tell me what you need.”
I blink. My hands are fists at my sides and I hadn’t even noticed.
“I…I don’t want everyone to know,” I admit, voice barely there. “Not yet.”
“Okay,” Coach says. “Then it stays in this room. You tell people when you’re ready. I’ll talk to your professors if you want me to. I’ll handle anything you don’t have the energy for.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
“And if you decide tomorrow you can’t do this,” he adds, softer, “I’ll still be your coach. I’ll still be in your corner. Basketball will wait.”
