I roll my eyes. “You mean the interrogation?”
“Therapy,” he corrects. “Free therapy.”
Nate shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, walking ahead a few steps. “He just loves being right.”
Sage smirks. “I do love being right.”
I follow them toward the car, the corner of my mouth lifting. When we pull into the Sin Bin driveway again, Sage turns around in his seat with a grin. “You survived your first post-practice outing. How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a social freight train,” I say honestly.
He laughs. “That’s normal. You’ll build tolerance. Besides, we’ve adopted you already, so you better get used to it.” Sage beams, his satisfaction clear, and Nate just shakes his head, but there’s something quietly pleased in his expression.
The air inside the car is warm, windows starting to fog at the edges, and for a second, I let myself close my eyes and sink intothe feeling of being… included. Not just tolerated but actually wanted.
They don’t rush me to get out when we park. Sage keeps the engine running, some soft indie band humming from the speakers, while Nate taps out a message on his phone. For a while, none of us says anything. It’s not awkward. It just…is.
Sage is the first to break the peace. “Hey. You know you can ask for this, right? To hang out. We’re not just going to let you disappear into your room or your hoodie all semester.”
I nod, even though the words stick a little. “Yeah. I know.”
“You don’t have to answer every text,” Nate adds, glancing over with that even look of his. “But you’re always invited. Doesn’t matter if you talk or not.”
It takes a second for the meaning to settle, but when it does, I feel a tightness in my chest let go. “Thanks,” I say quietly, clutching my bag a little tighter. “I’m… not always great with words. Sometimes I just need to… I don’t know. Listen, I guess.”
“Listening is a skill,” Sage declares. “Besides, Nate and I talk enough for three people. Don’t let him scare you,” he adds, gesturing to Nate. “He’s a puppy underneath all that sarcasm.”
Nate doesn’t even protest. He just slides his phone into his pocket and rolls his eyes.
I know I’ll never get used to being “adopted.” Not in the Sin Bin way, anyway. Sage’s laughter follows me up the steps, and even when I close my door behind me and dump my bag on the chair, I can still hear their voices downstairs threading through the quiet. A reminder that I’m not as invisible as I always assumed.
And that gives me even more confidence in the decision I’m about to make.
Damien
Theballarcsthroughthe air, smooth and perfect, and hits the backboard with a satisfying smack before sinking into the net. I don’t even watch it fall. My mind’s been elsewhere since we got out here—muscle memory doing all the work.
Adrian’s sweating through his sleeveless tee, focused and competitive, but not enough to trash-talk like he usually would. Maybe he senses something off about me today. Maybe it’s that obvious.
I wipe my palms on my shorts, catch the rebound, and dribble once before going for another shot. It misses this time, bouncing off the rim and spinning wide, smacking the side of the court with a hollow, rubbery slap. I don’t bother going after it.
Adrian grunts behind me, red hair plastered to his forehead. “You okay, man? You’re missing every second shot.”
I squint into the sky and shake my head. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit,” he mutters, moving to retrieve the ball. “You haven’t missed a free throw in, like, two years. What happened?”
We’re both halfway toward the half-court line when the back door slams open with a sharp crack, loud enough to stop us cold.
Ryan storms out with the grace of a fucking thundercloud, shoulders squared, jaw locked.“¿Qué carajos tú le dijiste?”
I blink at his rapid-fire Spanish, something he only really slips into when he’s pissed off, then he walks right up to me and shoves my chest. “What? Say to who?”
“Noah,” Ryan snaps, shoving me again, this time with more force. “What did you say to Noah?”
Adrian steps between us, ready to break up a fight, but I hold up a hand and stop him. I’m not going to swing. I just want to understand. “What the fuck are you talking about, Ry?”
Ryan glares at me, eyes blazing. “Don’t play dumb, Damien. He told me you two had a “moment”a few days ago, or whatever. Now I find him upstairs packing. He’s spoken to Kill about moving out, saying he signed a lease on an apartment and is leaving today.”
