Inside the rec center, the hum of the lights fills the quiet. No squeaking sneakers. No echoing yells. Just an empty court with one overhead light shining in the center.
The moment I push the door fully open, the automatic fans along the ceiling roar to life, sending cool air down in slow, sweeping waves.
“Wow,” he admires, glancing up. “You were right on the fans.”
“I told you. Nike commercial.” I toss him a ball from the rack, then grab my own.
We walk out onto the court, the fans ruffling our shirts, the whole place ours. It reminds me of my college days when I’d grab a friend andwe’d screw around for a few hours… waste time in the place that held all my hopes and dreams.
Colson wanders to the rack of balls and I pretend not to notice. He switches balls, testing the new one with a bounce, the sound echoes throughout the empty gym. I walk over and do the same.
And then it feels like I’m home. Me and a basketball.
We both do our own thing on separate sides of the court. It feels good. Time seems to run when I’m on the court, like I used to do before the injury that took me out. The one I agonize over when I’m feeling particularly pathetic and need to throw myself a pity party.
I take a few dribbles and pull up for a gentle jump shot. The ball arcs perfectly—every coach I’ve ever had would be proud—and smacks off the back rim, bouncing hard to the left. My right knee twinges as I land. Still. Six years and I can feel every weather change.
Colson’s eyes track it. Of course they do. His gaze flicks down to my brace, then back to my face. It’s the first time I’ve worn it in front of him, considering it’s not something I need to coach—only when I’m getting as close as I can to the sport that built me.
“You over-rotate a little on that knee,” he remarks. Not unkind. Not pitying. Just noticing. “You been rehabbing it lately?”
“Define lately.” I force a smile, jogging after my rebound. “It works. Mostly.”
He doesn’t push, but I catch the wave of what feels like concern in his expression. For a man who thinks nobody sees him, he sure sees everything.
He steps back to the three-point line, dribbles once, and goes up for a shot. His form is textbook—until the follow-through. His right shoulder tightens, his face pinches, and the shot sails short, clunking off the front rim.
I blink. “Was that… on purpose?”
“No,” he mutters.
“Cool. So we’re both disasters.”
His mouthtwitches. Barely, but it’s there. A ghost of a smile.
We fall into a slow rhythm—rebounds, easy layups, lazy passes that don’t test his shoulder or my knee too much. The fans push air over us as our shadows streak across the shiny court.
I see him watching me so I pass him the ball. He catches it—just one, and tosses it lightly back to me. “I used to hit those threes in my sleep,” he admits, nodding toward the spot where his shot bricked. “Now my shoulder….”
His words drift off and it feels like I’m on the verge of something. Like he’s about to crack open the shell and let me peek inside. But he stops, and I don’t feel like pushing him today.
I dribble in place. “Well. Lucky for you, today is just us. We’re allowed to suck.”
He exhales, quiet but almost a laugh. “Didn’t realize that was on the schedule.”
I spin the ball on my palm. “It is now.”
Colson stares at me for a second too long before a smile hits his lips and he looks to the floor, almost as if he’s hiding from it.
Part of me wants to see if he’s going to commit to helping me out. I should know, for the kids, or that’s what I keep telling myself.
I walk to the bleacher that has my phone and say, “Should probably exchange numbers?” My voice comes out wobbly and unsure. “Since you’re my new assistant coach. And we still have to get the dent in your car fixed.”
Colson eyes me, holding the ball in the crook of his elbow, the other hand resting on his hip. “I’m next door.” He says this in a way that makes it feel like he doesn’t want me to have his number. “And I’m not your assistant coach.”
I decide to leave the coaching details fuzzy—enough that he might actually bite and continue helping me. “For how long though? No offense but you seem a bit like a flight risk. Maybe I’m not there to step in at thegrocery store next time and the tourists run you out of town.” I shrug my shoulders, melting into the facade of the joke.
“Then you’d be off the hook,” he answers, so matter of fact.
