Like Stella is a liability.
“She’s not what you think,” I say quietly.
He arches a brow.
“And what do I think?”
“That she’s noise.”
Silence.
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he studies me in a way that feels like valuation.
“Is she?” he asks finally.
I think about the bleachers.
The ribbon in her hair.
The way she looks at the court like it’s holy ground.
“No,” I say.
He watches my face carefully.
Then nods once.
“Then don’t let her cost you.”
He claps my shoulder.
“See you at Thanksgiving.”
And just like that, he leaves.
The gym feels bigger after he’s gone.
Colder.
I walk to the free-throw line.
Pick up a ball.
One bounce.
Two.
Three.
I don’t close my eyes this time.
Because what my father doesn’t understand?—
What my mother doesn’t understand?—
Is that Stella isn’t noise.
