Chapter 30 Sloane #2
“Good,” Pops says, then looks at me like he’s delivering orders. “And you—go practice. I want updates.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Okay.”
Pops’s right hand lifts in a weak shooing motion. “Go.”
I back toward the doorway like leaving him feels wrong, like it’s a betrayal.
Cameron follows me into the hallway, voice low so Pops won’t hear.
“You don’t have to go,” he says, and I hear it now—fear, wrapped in control.
“I do,” I whisper back. “He wants me to.”
Cameron’s jaw flexes. “Yeah, because he’s Pops.”
“And because he knows me,” I add.
Cameron nods slowly, eyes shining in a way he’ll never admit. “Text me when you’re done.”
“I will.”
He looks at me for a second longer, then mutters, “Drive safe,” like that’s what he can offer.
I turn toward the kitchen to grab my keys, and Logan is there—leaning against the counter like he’s been waiting. Like he anticipated this moment.
He doesn’t speak right away.
He just watches my face with that quiet, infuriating accuracy.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” he says softly.
“I’m fine,” I snap automatically.
Logan lifts a brow. “You want to quote Pops, or should I?”
My mouth tightens.
Logan’s tone shifts lighter on purpose, like he’s tossing me a rope I didn’t ask for. “You should go. If you stay, you’ll spiral. If you go, you’ll spiral…but with sneakers on.”
I let out a sharp breath that might be a laugh. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Not trying to reassure you,” he says. “Just trying to keep you functional.”
I grab my keys off the counter, fingers stiff.
Then—because my brain can’t help itself—I blurt, “What if Cameron—”
Logan’s gaze flicks toward the hallway where Cameron disappeared, then back to me.
“What if Cameron finds out?” I finish, voice tight. “About…us.”
Logan’s mouth twitches.
He doesn’t look panicked.
He looks…resigned.
“Then I’ll take my ass beating like a man,” he says, dead serious.
I stare.
He adds, “I mean, it won’t be fun. Cameron’s got reach. But…I’ve taken harder hits than his.”
My lips twitch despite myself. “You’re an idiot.”
Logan’s eyes soften, but he keeps it controlled—keeps it Logan. “Yeah.”
I swallow, then whisper, “I don’t want him to hate you.”
Logan’s voice drops a fraction. “I don’t think he could even if he tried.”
The certainty in that makes my chest ache.
I shake my head like I can shake the emotion loose. “I have to go.”
Logan nods. “I’ll be here.”
Simple.
No promises.
No big speeches.
Just presence.
I turn toward the door, then stop because something in me can’t leave without…something.
I look back at him. “Don’t—” My voice catches. “Don’t let Pops try to do things alone.”
Logan’s gaze steadies. “I won’t.”
I hesitate one more second, then leave.
Outside, the air is mild, sunlight warm on my face, like the universe is mocking me. I slide into my car and grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white.
I sit there for one breath. Two.
Then I start the engine.
The drive to campus is a blur. Traffic lights. Palm trees. A billboard advertising something stupid and bright. My phone buzzes with texts I can’t answer.
Jade: u coming??
Blakely: coach is already in a mood lmao if you don’t show up for what you caused, that’s rude.
Jade: also if u ditch i’m dragging u myself.
I type back with stiff fingers.
on my way.
I don’t add the part where Pops just came home in a wheelchair and my living room now looks like a medical supply catalog.
Because if I say it, it becomes louder.
And I need quiet. I need control. I need to walk into practice and pretend my body still knows how to be a normal twenty-one-year-old.
—
The gym smells like varnished wood and sweat and the faint citrus cleaner they use on the floor. The sound of basketballs bouncing hits my ears like an old comfort and an old grief at the same time.
Jade and Blakely are by the lockers, already dressed—hair up, warmups on, eyes sharp.
Jade’s gaze snaps to my face the second I walk in.
That’s the thing about real friends: they don’t need details to know when the world is breaking.
Blakely steps closer, voice low. “He’s home?”
I nod once.
Jade exhales. “Okay.” Her hand catches my elbow for a second, grounding me. “You want to be here?”
The question is gentle. Not judging.
I swallow hard. “Pops told me to come.”
Blakely’s expression tightens, then softens. “Of course he did.”
Jade nudges my shoulder. “Then we do what you always do. One rep at a time.”
I huff a breath. “That sounds like Logan’s PT guy.”
“Jason?” Blakely asks, brows lifting.
Jade snorts. “Everyone has a Jason. Mine is Coach yelling at me for missing a free throw.”
As if summoned, Coach whistles from across the court, voice booming. “Rhodes! Warmups! Let’s go!”
I flinch, then force my body to move.
Sneakers squeak.
Ball hits my palm.
The familiar weight settles into my hands like muscle memory. Like I’ve done this a thousand times, and I can do it again.
But my mind keeps slipping back—
Pops’s left arm.
Pops’s face.
Pops in that wheelchair in the doorway like the house wasn’t built for this.
I miss a pass.
The ball smacks my shin and rolls away.
Coach whistles again. “Focus!”
I nod automatically. “Yes, Coach.”
My chest tightens.
I dribble harder. Faster. Like I can pound the fear out of my ribs.
Jade moves beside me during a water break, shoulder bumping mine. “Breathe,” she says under her breath.
I glare weakly. “You quoting Pops now?”
Jade’s smile is sad. “Someone has to.”
I swallow, blink hard, and stare at the court.
The lines are bright and clean and unforgiving.
Life keeps asking for performance.
Even when you’re breaking.
I lift the ball again.
I take the shot.
It swishes through the net—clean, perfect, like my hands know what to do even when my heart doesn’t.
Coach calls out, “That’s it!”
Jade grins, triumphant, like she just dragged me back from the edge.
And for a few seconds—just a few—I let the rhythm of practice hold me up.
Because Pops is home.
Because hospice will be here more often.
Because I have no idea how to be a daughter in this version of our life.
But I can be a point guard for two hours.
I can run drills and hit shots and pretend the future isn’t waiting at my front door.
And when practice ends, I’ll go back.
I’ll walk into my house, even though it feels like the walls are caving in more and more with every minute that passes.
I’ll see the wheelchair by the couch. I’ll hear Pops’s voice from the living room, since he can no longer make it to his bedroom.
And I’ll do the next thing I’m expected to do.
One foot in front of the other.
Even when it feels like the floor is being ripped out beneath me.