The mug stares back at me from the counter like a dare. Like a reminder. Like the wound you forget about until you hit it just right.
A sound escapes me—something between a breath and a choke. I pull my knees tighter, trying to cage the shaking before it gets worse.
It doesn’t work. I bow my head, fingers digging into my hair, and let the weight roll through me. The regret. The pressure. The loss. The stupid, suffocating ache of missing someone who saw every version of me and loved me anyway.
The sting behind my eyes finally breaks, tears dripping down my cheeks. I don’t wipe them away. What’s the point?
I don’t know how long I sit on the floor, letting myself finally shatter in a place where no one will see me.
No cameras. No teammates. No commentary. No one.
Just me, a picture on a mug, and the kind of grief that comes in waves—a current you can’t swim against.
When the shaking slows, I drag in a breath—thin, jagged, enough to keep me upright. My head thunks lightly against the cabinet behind me, the wood cool against my overheated skin.
I stare at the mug again. A memory buried in the decades. And even now, I can hear her asking me, “What are you going to do?” That was what she’d say every time I came to her with something she thought I was capable of handling. Most of the time she was right.
“I’m trying,” I whisper to no one. To her. To myself. “I’m trying.”
I’m not sure if that’s a lie or a promise.
six
Sadie
“Whatadick.Youshould’ve duct-taped him to the bleachers,” Maren groans, shoving a bouquet of peonies into my arms like emotional support flowers.
“I can’t duct-tape a grown man onto town property,” I mutter.
“You could. You absolutely could. I’ve seen you duct-tape a broken table leg to a cooler for an entire tournament weekend.”
“That was different,” I protest, adjusting the stems. “The table didn’t have free will.”
Maren—my best friend and owner of Harbor Blooms, purveyor of gossip and unsolicited encouragement—gives me a pointed look over the counter. Her braid is messy, her apron covered in dirt, and she still somehow looks like a walking magazine spread.
“Who quits two hours before practice?” she asks.
“Coach Dave,” I say dryly. “Apparently he and his family landed a last minute rental cabin in the Upper Peninsula.Too good to pass up.” I mimic his sad excuse for leaving me high and dry.
“And he couldn’t have told you yesterday?” Maren lightly moves daisies into the three arrangements she’s working on.
“He texted me a canoe emoji,” I deadpan.
She winces. “That’s brutal. And dickish.”
“Now I’ve got thirty kids and no assistant coach. And you know how last time went when I tried to do a full scrimmage solo.”
“Six crying children?”
“Seven. And that wasn’t even counting me!”
She tosses a rose petal at me. “What’s your plan?”
I exhale hard, leaning against the counter. “Panic. Briefly. Then… I don’t know.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I need someone who can talk to kids, keep a drill running, lift a ball without throwing out their back, who knows the basics of the game.”
Maren slowly raises an eyebrow. “So… like your conveniently planted NBA-playing neighbor?!”
I stare at her. She stares back.
