Chapter 15 Sloane #2
“Okay,” Coach says. “Then it stays in this room. You tell people when you’re ready. I’ll talk to your professors if you want me to. I’ll handle anything you don’t have the energy for.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
“And if you decide tomorrow you can’t do this,” he adds, softer, “I’ll still be your coach. I’ll still be in your corner. Basketball will wait.”
I nod, and this time a tear slips free anyway, hot on my cheek.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, like saying it out loud will make it real in a way I can’t undo.
Coach’s expression softens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That makes sense.”
I wipe at my face with the heel of my hand, annoyed at myself, at my stupid body.
Coach reaches for a box of tissues on the corner of his desk and slides it toward me without making a thing of it.
“I’m going to ask you one more thing,” he says. “Are you safe? Do you have people around you to support you through this?”
My mind flashes, first to Jade and Blakely, then to Logan’s hand on my back, Logan’s stupid steady presence, the way he doesn’t try to fix it, just stays.
“Yes,” I say, and it’s the first thing that comes out that feels certain. “I do.”
Coach nods once. “Good.”
He pauses, then adds, “You’re a hell of a player, Sloane. But more than that—you’re a hell of a human. Don’t try to carry this alone just because you’re used to being strong.”
My throat burns again.
“I’ll—” I clear it. “I’ll come to practice. For now.”
Coach gives me a small nod. “Okay. And if that changes at any point, you come tell me. Or you text. Or you have someone else tell me. You don’t have to be brave with me.”
I nod, clutching one tissue in my hand like it’s a lifeline.
When I reach for the door, Coach’s voice stops me.
“Sloane.”
I turn back.
He looks at me, eyes steady. “I’m proud of you. Not for showing up—don’t get it twisted. For being honest.”
My chest aches.
I nod once, tight, then slip out of the office and shut the door behind me like I didn’t just hand someone the most fragile part of my life.
But my steps feel a little less shaky walking down the hall.
By the time I get to the gym, I’ve rebuilt my armor.
Hair in a tight ponytail. Face neutral. Body moving like I’m fine.
Jade and Blakely are already there, both in warmups, both too awake for the hour. Jade has a coffee the size of her head and the energy of someone who should not be allowed near caffeine.
She spots me and immediately narrows her eyes like she’s scanning for cracks.
“Morning, Customer Service Bot,” she says brightly.
I glare. “Good morning, Human Headache.”
Blakely smiles, soft. “Hey.”
Jade leans in, whispering loudly because subtlety has never been her brand. “So…the party?”
My stomach drops. “What about it?”
Jade’s grin is vicious. “You left early.”
“I was tired.”
“Liar,” Jade says, delighted. “You were weird.”
Blakely bumps Jade’s shoulder. “Jade.”
Jade holds up her hands. “I’m just saying! She was weird.”
I shove my bag into my locker a little too hard. “I was not weird.”
Jade’s eyes sparkle. “So you didn’t talk to Flannel Guy?”
My throat tightens. “His name is Ethan.”
Jade’s brows shoot up. “Oh my God. You know his name.”
“Because he introduced himself,” I snap.
Blakely’s gaze turns sharp, thoughtful. “Did something happen?”
“No,” I say too fast. Then I force myself to breathe and aim for sarcasm instead of panic. “Yes, something happened. I went to a party. I talked to a person. I hated it. The end.”
Jade grins. “That’s my girl.”
Blakely watches me a beat longer than Jade does, like she can see the way my hands are trembling just slightly as I retie my shoes.
Then she says quietly, “We can leave early today if you need to.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t.”
Jade tilts her head. “Slo…”
“I’m fine,” I cut in.
Both of them groan in unison.
“Bot,” Jade mutters.
I glare at them both, then turn toward the court because if I stand still too long, I’ll start thinking about Logan’s mouth again, and I don’t have time for that.
Practice is brutal. It’s brutal because my body is here and my mind isn’t.
I miss a pass I never miss. I fumble a dribble. I get called out twice for zoning out.
“Rhodes,” Coach says, voice firm. “Eyes up.”
“I’m here,” I snap.
Coach’s gaze softens just slightly, like he hears the edge and understands it isn’t about him. “Then show me.”
I do.
I push until my lungs burn. Until sweat stings my eyes. Until the ache in my legs feels like something I can control.
For two hours, I almost forgot.
Then practice ends, and reality walks back in like it owns the place.
Jade corners me by the lockers, arms crossed, face suddenly serious. “Talk to us.”
I roll my eyes. “About what?”
“About your dad,” Blakely says softly.
The words hit like a fist to my chest.
I freeze.
Jade’s eyes go gentle, which is somehow worse. “Sloane.”
My throat burns. “We have our first hospice nurse meeting today. At two.”
Blakely’s eyes fill instantly. “Do you want us to come?”
“No,” I say too quickly. Too sharp. Then I inhale, forcing the truth into something less jagged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”
Jade reaches for my hand, squeezes hard. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”
I almost laugh, because I’ve been carrying it alone in my head for months.
“I have to,” I whisper.
Blakely shakes her head. “You don’t.”
Jade nods. “Also, if you want to punch someone, I volunteer Ethan.”
I snort despite myself. “Ethan didn’t do anything.”
Jade’s eyes narrow. “But he exists.”
“Jade,” Blakely warns, but she’s smiling too.
I swallow hard, and the smile fades.
“Coach said I can take time off,” I admit, voice quiet. “But if I stop moving, I think I’ll…fall apart.”
Jade’s face softens. “Then we’ll keep you moving.”
Blakely nods. “We’ve got you.”
Something in my chest cracks. I blink fast, refusing to let it spill.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Jade bumps my shoulder. “Always.”
By the time I get home, the house feels different.
Not because anything changed structurally—same one-story layout, same basketball hoop in the driveway, same worn welcome mat Pops refuses to replace—but because there are extra cars.
Cameron’s and a white SUV that I don’t recognize are parked neatly at the curb.
My stomach drops.
They’re here.
My fingers go numb around my keys.
Inside, voices drift from the living room—soft, professional, too calm. The kind of calm that makes you feel like your world is just another Tuesday on someone else’s schedule.
I step into the hallway and stop.
Pops is in his recliner, blanket over his legs, trying to look like this is no big deal. Cameron sits on the arm of the couch, jaw tight, hands clasped like he’s praying.
And Logan—
Logan is in the corner, not in the center, not inserting himself, just…present. Brace on. Crutch leaned against the wall. Shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact. His gaze flicks to mine when I enter, and it’s careful again. Quiet.
Not smug.
Not proud.
Just…there.
A woman in a navy cardigan stands when she sees me, smile gentle and practiced. “Sloane? Hi. I’m Marissa. I’ll be your father’s hospice nurse.”
The word hospice feels like someone poured ice water down my spine.
I force my face to be neutral. “Hi.”
Marissa gestures toward the couch. “We were just going over what support looks like. Comfort care. Symptom management. What we can provide at home, then we will just chat for a little bit about what is most important to him in terms of his care.”
At home.
As if my father dying is a service package.
I swallow hard and sit on the edge of the couch, spine straight, notebook already open in my lap, because if my hands are writing, they’re not shaking.
Marissa speaks softly, carefully. She explains what her job will be as a nurse, aides, equipment. Meds. Pain control. Headaches. Seizure risk. Appetite changes. Mood changes.
Brain tumor behavior changes.
Every word lands like a nail.
Pops cracks a joke halfway through—something about finally getting room service—and Marissa laughs politely, Cameron’s jaw clenches harder, and my throat burns because my dad is trying to make this lighter for us.
I ask too many questions.
Pops reaches out and squeezes my hand.
“Slo,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”
I realize I haven’t.
My chest aches as I drag in air.
Marissa continues, voice steady, “We’ll focus on quality of life. Keeping him comfortable. Supporting you. Supporting the family.”
Supporting the family.
My eyes sting.
I blink hard.
Across the room, Logan’s gaze is on me—quiet, unblinking, like he’s absorbing the weight I refuse to set down.
I hate him for that.
I hate him for being here.
And some sick part of me hates him for kissing me last night, because now my body keeps wanting his comfort while my brain screams that comfort is not safe.
The visit ends with paperwork and dates and the promise of someone being on call twenty-four-seven.
Cameron walks Marissa to the door. Pops leans back, eyes closed, exhausted now that he doesn’t have to perform.
I stand abruptly, the folder pressed to my chest like a shield, and head for the kitchen, because if I stay in the living room one more second, I’m going to shatter in front of everyone.
I barely make it to the counter before the sob claws up my throat.
I clamp it down.
Not now.
Not in front of Pops.
Not in front of Logan.
Not—
“Hey,” Logan’s voice comes from behind me, low. “Sloane.”
I spin, anger flaring because anger is easier than grief.
“What,” I snap.
He stops a few feet away, hands visible, posture careful like he’s approaching a wild animal. “I’m not—I’m not trying to—”
“Then don’t,” I cut in. “Just…don’t.”
His jaw tightens. He nods once, like he’s taking another hit on purpose. “Okay.”
The quiet acceptance makes my anger wobble.
I hate that too.
“You’re hovering,” I accuse, because if I can make him the problem, I don’t have to face the folder on the counter with my dad’s death inside it.
“I’m standing,” he says dryly.
I glare. “You know what I mean.”
He exhales slowly. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches.
The house feels thin again, like even sound is afraid.
From the living room, Pops coughs softly.
My stomach twists.
Logan’s voice drops, gentler. “Do you want me to leave the room?”
The question shouldn’t make my chest ache, but it does anyway.
“No,” I say too fast, then hate myself for it.
Logan’s gaze flicks to my mouth for half a second, and my pulse jumps like a traitor.
I tighten my grip on the folder.
“Last night,” I say, voice sharp, “doesn’t mean anything.”
Logan goes still.
His jaw flexes. “Okay.”
The word is quiet. Controlled. Not arguing. Not claiming.
It makes me feel like I’m losing my footing.
“You don’t get to act calm about it,” I snap.
His gaze lifts, steady. “I’m calm because I’m not going to push you.”
I swallow hard, throat burning. “You should’ve pushed.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Logan’s eyes widen slightly, like he heard the slip for what it was.
My face heats with instant regret.
I straighten my spine like posture can erase it. “Forget it.”
Logan’s voice is low. “Sloane…”
I flinch, then force myself to look at him. “I can’t do this.”
“I know,” he says. “So we won’t.”
My breath catches.
He takes a small step back, giving me space. “I’m not bringing it up unless you do,” he says quietly. “But I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
Because that’s the problem.
Telling him to go would mean admitting I might want him to stay.
I hate that my eyes sting.
I hate that I can’t stop thinking about how he looked when he said he was jealous.
I hate that my father is dying, and my heart is still capable of wanting anything at all.
I hear Cameron come back inside and instantly put distance between us.
“I have to go check on Pops,” I whisper.
Logan nods once. “Yeah.”
I walk past him toward the hallway, and today, he doesn’t stop me.
He doesn’t follow.
In Pops’s doorway, I pause.
He’s awake, eyes open, watching me.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
Pops’s mouth twitches, tired and kind. “Sure you are.”
My throat still burns.
I step into the room anyway, because denial might be my specialty, but Pops has always been the one person who sees through it.
And I realize something that makes my stomach twist all over again: this house is full of endings.
And I don’t know how to survive them without breaking.