CHAPTER TWELVE
Stella
The gym smells like fresh polish. The janitor must’ve finished late last night. There’s that faint lemon-cleaner scent layered over old wood and sweat baked into the floorboards from decades of bodies diving and sliding and bleeding on it.
I love that smell.
It smells like work.
Like effort.
Like legacy.
I kneel at the end line and lace my shoes tight — double knot, always double knot. My fingers move automatically.
The ball cart waits at the sideline.
I roll one out.
It feels cool in my hands.
Smooth.
Familiar.
I step to the baseline.
Close my eyes.
This is my cathedral.
One bounce.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Every time.
No more.
No less.
The rhythm settles something in me.
I inhale.
Open my eyes.
Toss.
Jump.
