“You’re still in this game,” I say. “You hear me?”
He nods, swiping at his cheeks with the heels of his hands.
I hold out my fist. “Deal?”
He hesitates for half a second, then bumps it with his own, fighting a smile.
“Good,” I praise, standing. “Now don’t run the score up on us or anything.”
He runs back to his huddle, people cheering him on, with his head high, wiping the last of the tears away. When I glance up, the other team’s coach catches my eye and gives me a grateful nod.
I nod back.
As I turn toward our bench, Sadie’s looking at me. She doesn’t say anything. Just mouths the words—clear as day.
I love you.
My heart skips a beat, I swear. And I can’t help the way it feels to have her by my side.
fifty-four
Sadie
Thebuzzersounds,thenit’s the best kind of chaos. Kids are yelling, slapping hands, bouncing on the balls of their feet like they’ve won at everything in life. They swarm each other first, then the scorers’ table, forming a crooked, impatient line that keeps breaking apart because none of them can stand still.
Medals aren’t typical for these games. Everyone knows that. But when you ask nine-and-ten-year-olds to show up all summer, to run drills in the heat, to learn how to play as a team? You give them something they can hold that tells them they mattered.
The medals are bright, catching the last of the sun as they’re passed out, one by one. The kids beam like they’ve been crowned royalty, lifting them to their mouths, clinking them together, throwing their arms around each other.
We only won by three.
You wouldn’t know it, considering the other team is still laughing, still running, still proud in the way only kids can be—like the score doesn’t define the night. Parents pour onto the court, phones out, calling names, crouching low for photos, scooping sweaty kids into hugs. Everyone is pink-cheeked and full of life.
I step back a little, letting it all wash over me.
That’s when I see Colson.
He’s standing to the side, hands on his hips, watching everything like he’s trying to memorize it. The kids with their parents. The way one dad lifts his son straight into the air. A mom brushing hair out of her daughter’s face before snapping a picture. The way everyone seems lighter than they did two hours ago.
He looks… happy. His eyes sparkle in a way that makes my chest ache. I wonder if he’s thinking about his mom. About summers when things felt this simple. Like showing up and trying hard were enough to make the world feel the way it should be.
It’s a Friday night in the middle of summer, and for a moment, everything is exactly as it should be.
When the chaos finally settles, I step up beside him.
“Good job, Coach,” I say, nudging his arm.
He turns to me, smiling like he’s never scowled in his life. “Right back at ya.”
Before I can respond, I notice a man walking toward us with a boy at his side. The boy’s got red shoes—the same ones from earlier—and Colson’s smile shifts, his brow furrowing slightly, like he’s trying to place a memory.
The man stops in front of us and holds out his hand. “Darren Jones.”
Colson takes it automatically, then freezes.
“You’re the head coach for the Detroit Wolves.”
Darren grins. “Guilty.”
