Let them keep not knowing.
I step back onto the hardwood.
The smell of polish and sweat hits me.
The familiar squeak of shoes.
The bounce of balls.
Coach’s whistle.
This, at least, still makes sense.
I walk to the baseline and pick up a ball.
One bounce.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Routine settles into my body like prayer.
I toss.
Jump.
Serve.
The ball slams into the floor so hard the crack echoes through the empty corners of the gym.
“Again,” Coach calls.
Good.
Because if I stop moving, I might start thinking.
And if I start thinking, I might do something reckless.
Like tell the truth.
Like go after him.
Like admit that the slow, devastating gut-drop in that training room wasn’t because I learned Isa had a plan.
It was because, for the first time, I realized I never had one.
