“I think I’m starting to understand,” I say finally.
He squeezes my hand once, grounding. “That’s all I need right now.”
We sit together, neither of us pulling away, neither of us pretending the conversation fixed anything. Outside, the city hums like it always does—indifferent, restless, alive. Inside, something has shifted.
It’s not broken, but it’s no longer light enough to ignore.
5
The third preseasongame feels different. Not because the stakes are higher—they aren’t, not officially—but because my body finally stops buzzing like it’s waiting to be found out. The first two games were all nerves and noise, my brain half a step behind my instincts. Tonight, things slow down just enough for me to trust myself.
I don’t dominate the floor, but I don’t need to. Instead, I make the right cuts and communicate on defense. I don’t force shots that aren’t there. When the ball comes to me, I take it cleanly and put it where it’s supposed to go. The coaching staff notices. I can feel it in the way eyes linger a fraction longer during time-outs, in the nod from the assistant coach when I come off the floor.
It’s working.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m tired in the good way, the earned way. I towel off at my locker, heart still hammering, sweat cooling on my skin as the adrenaline ebbs. Marco catches my eye across the room and lifts his chin in approval.
Solid.
That’s the word that matters right now.
I shower quickly, change, and check my phone the second I sit down. There’s a text waiting for me.
Lindy: We’re here. I’m losing my mind. Hurry up, dickweed.
I grin at my sister’s message before I can stop myself and text back.
Me: Behave.
Lindy: Never.
By the time I make it out to the concourse, I spot them immediately.
Lindy is impossible to miss. She’s perched on the railing near the tunnel, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she might actually launch herself onto the court if security weren’t right there. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, Monarchs cap shoved on backward, cheeks flushed with excitement.
Beside her are Josie and Kylie—both familiar faces from home, both looking like they’re trying very hard to play it cool while absolutely not playing it cool at all.
“Oliver James Marshall!” Lindy shouts the second she sees me. “Excuse you!”
“Jesus,” I mutter, but I’m smiling as I push through.
She doesn’t wait for me to say anything. She launches herself at me, arms tight around my middle, nearly knocking the breath out of me. “You were so good,” she says into my chest, voice muffled. “Like, actually ridiculous.”
I laugh and wrap my arms around her, lifting her just enough that she squeaks. “Hey. I thought you were supposed to be cool now.”
“I will never be cool. Not about this,” she declares. “You’re my brother.”
Josie grins at me from over Lindy’s shoulder. “She screamed every time you touched the ball.”
“Thatis a lie,” Lindy says immediately. “I screamed strategically.”
Kylie snorts. “You screamed like you were at a Taylor Swift concert.”
“Traitor,” Lindy hisses.
I step back, still holding Lindy at arm’s length, and look at her properly. She looks happy. Genuinely happy. The kind of happy that makes something warm loosen in my chest.
“You guys have fun?” I ask.
