“Hey, keep your elbow in when you shoot,” I tell him. “Makes your release more stable.”
He tries it. The ball arcs perfectly and swishes. His entire face lights up. It’s like the made shot took a piece of my resolve with it.
I drift from kid to kid, giving quick tips and gentle corrections. They’re eager to hear from me and are more patient than I was at this age. This used to be one of my favorite things—working with kids at the camps my team would offer. I used to be one of those kids. My mom would sign me up for anything and everything basketball related—scraping together all of her leftover tip money from waiting tables to fund it.
My body remembers how to do this—how to teach the basics, how to encourage without overthinking it. My heart remembers, too, even though I wish it didn’t.
When I straighten up after making my rounds, talking to each of the players, Sadie’s watching me. In a way that makes me feel seen, which is dangerous territory.
She walks over and says, “You’re good with them.”
I grunt. “It’s just one practice.”
“Mm-hm.” Her brows press into her forehead.
“I mean it.”
“Oh, I believe you,” she lies cheerfully.
I want to argue, but then someone's hands tug on my shirt.
“Can you come back tomorrow?” a little girl asks, blonde hair in two pigtails, who did a couple cartwheels while waiting for her turn during a drill.
Jesus Christ. The timing.
I swallow. “We’ll… see.”
The little girl smiles, while trying to dribble the ball between her legs a few feet ahead of us.
The next hour flies by. The kids leave sweaty, red-faced, and carrying the kind of happy exhaustion only three hours of running around can cause.
When it’s only us, Sadie waves at me. I start walking toward the back door, kids and parents still out front probably getting situated. “So…” she calls after me, “see you tomorrow?”
I don’t turn around. “I didn’t say I’m coming tomorrow.”
“Right,” she answers, voice bright and almost echoing through the gym. “I’ll mark you down asDefinitely Showing Up.”
I stop at the door, fighting the urge to smile. “I’m not coming tomorrow.”
Her hands lift in faux surrender. “Absolutely. I’ll make sure the back door is unlocked in case you want to sneak in.”
I shake my head, push open the back door, and step into the afternoon sun.
I’m not coming back. I’m not. Probably not.
Fuck.
Okay, yeah, I’m screwed.
eight
Sadie
GOLDENHARBOR(LOCALSONLY)- Thread
Carla B.:Does anyone know the young man behind the rec center?? He is GRUNTING VERY LOUDLY and flinging what looks like ropes?? Should I call someone??
Terry P.:Carla, sweetie, they’re called battle ropes.
