But she’s not here. It’s just me and the sun beaming through all these goddamn windows with too-thin blinds. The only thing louder than the silence is the truth buzzing in the back of my mind: I don’t know how to fix any of this. I have no idea what I want. What I deserve. What my next move is.
I grab a throw blanket and toss it haphazardly over the curtain rod, doing anything I can to dim the light. It’ll do for now.
Falling into the bed, I close my eyes and let the drowsiness from the drive and the hangover pull me into sleep.
two
Sadie
“Ithoughtwehadthe jelly sandal conversationlasttime?” I ask the nine-year-old that’s basically limping at this point.
“They’re so cute,” she croons, her cheeks pink from either embarrassment or the early summer sun’s heat.
She’s not wrong—the sandals are adorable. Actually, they bring me back to a time where I begged my parents for them at the store, even though my mom told me how they’d give me blisters. My mom was right, but she could never know. I went through a box of Band-Aids a week that summer.
The little girl stands in front of me wearing a skort, matching tank top, and a legit pink satin bow in her hair. I’m a firm believer that sports are for everyone and this isn’t her girly-girl side showing; she’s in physical pain from those plastic hellscapes on her poor feet.
“We’re almost done for today, but next time, let’s do half and half. You can switch into your tennis shoes when these start to hurt your feet, ok?”
She nods before doing a spin and beaming at me. I watch her run back to her ‘team’ and they all whisper about what we just talked about. The girls cover their mouths and giggle while the boys pretend not to listen. I love watching kids make friends during the summer.
I clap my hands loudly, getting everyone’s attention. “Okay, let’s finish this with a shootaround outside. Parent pick up starts in one minute.”
The kids cheer, run to grab their bags, and race to be the first outside to get one of the basketballs. It’s nothing but the sound of dribbling and energy burning from little humans and I take a moment. Slow down, pause, drink it in.
This is the third year I’ve been in charge of the rec center in Golden Harbor. It’s not much when you look at it, but it’s these types of moments that really make a difference. Giving parents the option for summer care, because even though the kids don’t have school, parents still have to work.
I do what I can to help our small community, one I used to visit every summer when I was a kid. My dad was a college basketball coach at a Division I school a few hours south of here, but Golden Harbor was where we escaped to. Where he wasn’t Coach Becker, where he didn’t have to watch film or take recruiting calls during dinner. Up here, he was just my dad.
That’s why I came back, why I run this place. If I can give even a sliver of that feeling to these kids—the freedom, that summer-magic kind of safety—then it’s worth every hour, every budget headache, every minor injury, including today’s blistered jelly-sandals incident.
Not only was my dad someone not to share when we’d come here, but I was simply Sadie. There was no one asking me what my plans were when it came to the sport my family practically breathed into my bones.
My mom used to joke that, when she was pregnant with me, I was never calmer than when she was watching my dad coach. The sound of the basketballs, the squeak of the shoes on the hardwood, was the only time I was chill.
Most of the parents have picked up their kids, some of them wishing for five more minutes and others having checked out about twenty minutes in. I have a few high schoolers who volunteer throughout the summer, and they’re in charge of check in and out—I get to do more of the fun stuffwith the kids.
“Alright! Last round. Get your shots up and put the balls back once you’re done!” I shout to who’s left.
The kids scatter like confetti, laughing, tripping, picking their favorite spot on the court with only one hoop outside. We’re lucky enough to have two full courts inside, so I didn’t push when we only had the one out here—we treat it like a bonus spot to hang out, do drills, pass time.
The sun kisses my shoulders and I look to the sky. It’s a perfect June day without a cloud to be found. I’m thinking of how I’ll spend my night when there’s a loud CLANG.
Next door, at the vacation house I know to be vacant, a basketball slams into the side of a black car, one I’ve never seen before. It bounces off, then rolls into the yard.
“Oh no.” I wince as one of the boys freezes, hands still overhead from his overly ambitious half-court shot attempt.
He runs up to me, pulling at my shirt. “Coach Sadie,” he whispers, eyes huge. “I need a redo.”
A redo.The phrase they learn during their first day with me. Free to be used when you miss your last shot, forget the play we’re running, or when you need a minute to try again.
“Yep,” I say with a sigh. “But let’s hope the owner is chill.”
Spoiler: he is not. Because standing there—jaw tight, sunglasses on, expression set to “don’t even breathe near me”—is a guy I absolutely recognize, but pretend I don’t. Not here. Not with kids around.
Colson Burke,NBA star.
Well, at this point he may be aformerNBA star. Definitely a current storm cloud.
