Chapter 25 Logan
LOGAN
Pops is awake before I am, which shouldn’t be possible because I slept like someone dropped a truck on my chest.
But the house has its own clock now.
Not the one on the wall with the steady tick. The other one. The one that measures mornings in coughs and shuffling feet and the way the air changes when you realize you’re listening for a sound you hate.
I hear the walker first.
A soft scrape against the hallway floor. Slow. Careful. Like every step is a negotiation his body is losing.
By the time I swing my legs off the bed and grab my brace, he’s already in the kitchen, hands on the counter, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s pretending he’s just…stretching.
He looks up when I enter and gives me a smile that tries to be normal.
It almost works.
“Morning, kid,” he says.
“Morning,” I answer, voice rough. I clear my throat and pretend it’s just sleep. “You okay?”
His brows lift like the question is offensive. “I’m standing, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” I mutter, and I hate the way it comes out—half joke, half fear.
Pops snorts and turns toward the coffeemaker. He pours slowly with both hands on the pot, deliberate. He doesn’t spill, but I catch the tiny tremor in his left hand when he sets the mug down.
He catches me catching it, his jaw tightens instantly, and a rare look of anger takes over his features.
I lift my hands in surrender. “Wasn’t gonna say anything.”
“You always say something,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it. Just tired.
The kitchen smells like coffee and toast and that faint antiseptic scent that has seeped into the walls like it’s part of the house now.
A magnet on the fridge holds a hospice schedule in place.
The comfort kit bag sits tucked against the pantry wall like a silent threat.
Pops follows my gaze for half a second and then looks away first, jaw flexing.
“Big day,” he says lightly.
“Yeah,” I say.
He doesn’t say the rest out loud, but it hangs between us anyway.
Win today, and Sloane plays again next week.
Lose, and her junior season ends.
In normal life, that would be the heavy thing.
In this life, it’s a pebble stacked on top of a mountain.
A door clicks down the hall.
Footsteps.
Fast. Purposeful. Like she’s marching into battle.
Sloane appears in the kitchen already dressed for game day—warmups on, hair yanked into a ponytail so tight it probably hurts. Her face is neutral in that way she does when she’s scared.
Armor on.
She looks at Pops first.
Not at his mug. Not at the coffee. Not at the walker parked too close like it belongs.
At him.
“Morning,” she says, voice steady.
“Morning,” Pops answers.
Sloane crosses the kitchen and kisses his cheek like it’s routine. Like she didn’t hesitate a second too long before she did it.
“Sit,” she tells him quietly.
Pops bristles on instinct. “I am sitting.”
“You were standing,” she shoots back.
Pops’s mouth twitches, caught. “Details.”
Sloane’s gaze softens—tiny, quick. “Save it for when we win.”
Pops lifts a brow. “When you win?”
Sloane’s mouth tightens like she’s fighting a smile. “When.”
She turns toward the counter, grabs a granola bar, then pauses. Her eyes flick to the walker, then to Pops again.
“You’re staying home today,” she says.
It isn’t a question. And it isn’t a fight.
It’s…permission.
Pops looks defeated, and for a beat, I think he’s going to argue out of reflex—because he always does. Because being told what to do makes him itch.
But Sloane’s face doesn’t change. It stays calm. Firm. Loving in a way she pretends she isn’t capable of.
“You’re too tired,” she says softly, like she’s talking to a stubborn child. “And I’m not spending the entire game watching you suffer in the bleachers because you think you have to prove something.”
Pops’s jaw tightens.
Sloane steps closer and rests her hand on his forearm. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
The words hang in the air.
Pops exhales slowly. “You don’t want me there?”
Sloane’s eyes flash. “Don’t do that.”
Pops’s mouth twitches faintly. “Do what?”
“Make it sound like it’s about me,” she says, voice tight but controlled. “It’s about you not wrecking yourself.”
Pops studies her for a long beat.
Then, quietly, like it costs him more than he’d like to admit, he nods once.
“Okay,” he says.
Sloane’s shoulders loosen a fraction, like she just won a battle no one else saw.
She swallows hard and backs away before she can fall into the softness.
“Good,” she says briskly, like she didn’t just crack. “Text me during halftime.”
Pops lifts his mug. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sloane rolls her eyes and turns toward the door, grabbing her duffel.
As she passes me, her gaze flicks briefly to my brace, then up to my face.
“Don’t be late,” she says.
I lift a brow. “Are you my mom now?”
Her mouth twitches. “Someone has to be.”
Then she’s gone, front door closing softly behind her.
The house exhales.
Pops stares at the closed door for a second too long, coffee mug warm between his hands like he’s anchoring himself to something simple.
I don’t speak.
Because if I speak, I’ll say something that makes it real.
Pops clears his throat like he’s resetting.
“All right,” he says, voice lighter now. “Since she’s gone…”
My gaze flicks to him. “Since she’s gone, what?”
Pops pushes his chair back and stands, grabbing the counter for support. Then he shuffles toward the laundry room like he’s on a mission.
I follow because I don’t completely trust him not to faceplant.
He disappears for a moment, and I hear him rummaging through a drawer.
When he comes back, he’s holding a T-shirt in both hands, grinning like a fool.
He presents it to me with an expression that is way too pleased with itself.
“Wear this,” he says.
I blink. “What is that?”
Pops unfolds it with a flourish that would make Cameron proud.
The white of the shirt is a little dimmer from being washed a few too many times, a cartoon basketball, and right across the chest:
I THE POINT GUARD
I stare at it, absolutely horrified.
Pops beams like he just handed me a trophy.
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
“Oh, I’m serious,” he replies. “This is my lucky shirt.”
“That is not a lucky shirt,” I argue, because there is no way in hell I am wearing that.
Pops’s eyes narrow. “Excuse your ass. That shirt has seen more wins than you have.”
I snort. “That’s not even—”
He lifts a hand. “Don’t start. Wear it.”
I look down at the shirt again, and my chest tightens. It’s ridiculous. It’s embarrassing. It’s exactly Pops.
It’s also…a way for him to be there.
To be seen.
To be present without sitting in a cold gym with bleachers that will cause him pain and wear him out even more.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Pops’s smile softens, satisfaction fading into something gentler. “Good.”
Then he points at the letters like he’s diagramming a play. “And don’t cover it up with a sweatshirt or some shit like that.”
I squint. “You want me to walk in there wearing that like I’ve lost a bet?”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “You did lose a bet.”
“Who did I bet?” I demand.
“Me,” Pops says, deadpan. “And I win. Every time.”
I huff a laugh that actually makes it to my chest. “You’re gonna get me arrested.”
Pops shrugs like it’s fine. “For being supportive? What a crime.”
I shake my head, still staring at the shirt. “You do realize I belong to the rival college, right? This is humiliating. ”
Pops lifts a brow. “So is missing a wide-open slant route, but I’ve watched you do that too.”
I cannot believe he just went there. “That was one time,” I sputter.
“That was multiple times,” he corrects.
“You’re mean,” I mutter.
Pops smiles, tired and pleased. “I’m a coach.”
I swallow hard, because behind the joke is the truth: he was always loud and shameless and proud about his kids.
It’s how he loved.
“Be in my seat,” Pops says quietly.
My throat tightens. “Yeah.”
“And when she looks for me,” he adds, softer, “let her know I’m watching.”
I nod once because I can’t trust my voice. “I will.”
Pops pats my shoulder, then steps back like he didn’t just hand me something heavy enough to crush me.
“Go,” he says. “Before she comes back and decides this is child abuse.”
I glance down at the shirt again.
Then back at him.
“Go,” he repeats, softer.
So I do.
—
I put the shirt on in my room with the door shut like I’m committing a crime.
It fits. Of course it fits. Pops bought it in a men’s large because he’s always been delusional about sizing and optimism.
The mirror shows a limping wide receiver with a knee brace and a chest that reads like a Valentine’s Day gag.
I THE POINT GUARD
Jesus.
I grab my hoodie to cover it, then stop.
Pops said don’t.
So I leave the hoodie on the bed and walk out like I have no dignity.
Pops is back in his recliner by the time I come through the living room, blanket over his legs, TV muted. He lifts his eyes, sees the shirt, and his smile is immediate.
“Perfect,” he says, like I’m a masterpiece.
I roll my eyes. “You owe me.”
Pops hums. “Put it on my tab.”
I pause at the front door, hand on the knob.
“Text me,” Pops says.
“I will,” I promise.
“And Logan?”
I look back.
His face is softer now. Smaller, somehow. Not physically…just…dimmer.
“You’re doing good,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens.
I force a smile. “Tell that to my knee.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “Tell it to your heart too.”
I swallow, nod once, and leave before my throat can betray me.
—
The gym is loud.
Not just noise—energy.
Bleachers packed, students in school colors, the pep band beating the same rhythm into everyone’s bones. The smell is popcorn and sweat and adrenaline.
I find a seat near the front because Pops would be near the front.
I sit where he’d sit.
Like it matters.
And it does.
I’m adjusting in my seat when I feel eyes on me.
I glance down at my chest.
Right. The shirt.
A guy two rows up reads it, laughs, then elbows his friend. “Bro, that’s bold.”
I mutter under my breath, “Fuck me,” and rub the back of my neck like I can somehow erase myself.
“LOGAN brOOKS!”