Chapter 31 Sloane
SLOANE
The season ends on a missed free throw.
Not mine, thank God, but the devastation still lands in my chest as if it were. The rim rejected the ball just like my life seems to reject good luck.
The buzzer sounds, and the scoreboard stays the same. They win by one. The visitors’ bench explodes, Coach claps his hands twice, and we form a line.
We shake hands. We say the words we’re supposed to say.
“Good game.”
“Good game.”
My mouth moves. My body moves, but my brain is stuck somewhere else.
All I can think about right now is the fact that I no longer have a buffer to keep me sane outside of my house. All of my classes are done in just two short weeks, even though they were all online anyways.
Home isn’t just home anymore.
Home is hospice supplies tucked off to the side, like we can hide what’s happening if we don’t look too hard.
Home is Pops sleeping more than he’s awake.
Home is Cameron’s jaw locked tight, as if sheer will could keep our family together earth-side.
Home is me counting time in medication windows and meals. Making sure Pops has eaten enough to take his medications without upsetting his stomach. Making sure we are rotating and moving him enough to make sure he doesn't get sores or any sore spots on his skin.
Home is honestly the last place I want to be right now. So I don’t leave the court when everyone else does.
Instead, I stand at center court until everyone is gone, then I drop. Flat on my back. Arms loose on the cool floor beside me. Staring up at the rafters like if I don’t move, the world can’t move either.
The overhead lights buzz softly. Somewhere in the distance, a door closes. The building exhales.
Logan was in the stands tonight. Not in the front row, he’d never make it that obvious. But he was close enough that I found him easily, though I think I could find him just about anywhere.
His gaze stayed on me the whole game. Even when I wasn’t looking, I could feel it.
I close my eyes.
Maybe if I stay here long enough, time will pause out of pity.
Minutes pass. Or seconds. Time is weird lately.
At some point, the last of the chatter fades. The last sneakers squeak out of the gym. The last echo disappears.
It’s just me and the lights and the hollow, but only for a second.
Footsteps approach, and I know who it is before they even make it to my side.
I keep my eyes closed anyway, stubborn.
The footsteps stop near my head.
He lowers himself onto the floor beside me. I open my eyes and turn my head.
Logan is stretched out next to me like he belongs here—hoodie, sweats, one arm behind his head, gaze fixed on the ceiling.
“Figured you’d still be here,” he adds, and the way he says it makes it sound like a confession. Like he’s annoyed that he cares this much. He lies there with me, shoulder close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the sleeves of his hoodie.
Finally, I turn my head again, and my voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “Hi.”
Logan’s smirk deepens a fraction. “Hi.”
Two letters. Still enough to shift something in my chest.
We lie in silence again. The court is empty around us. The building hums faintly with electricity and leftover sound.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” Logan says quietly.
My breath catches. I force a scoff because sarcasm is safer than tears. “Pretend what?”
Logan doesn’t take the bait. He just holds my eyes.
“That you’re fine,” he says evenly. “That you’re only upset about losing the game.”
“I am mad about the game,” I snap, because it’s true and also because it’s easier.
“I know,” he says immediately, no argument. “You should be. You played your ass off.”
The validation lands like warmth I didn’t know I needed.
Then, quieter, he adds, “But it’s not the only thing.”
I stare at the ceiling again, because if I look at him too long, I’ll do something stupid—like cry. Or kiss him. Or both.
“How’s Pops?” I ask, voice rough.
Logan’s jaw flexes once. He answers carefully.
“He had a better day,” he says. “Watched the game, then when I called him, he was watching the highlights and roasting every single commentator.”
A laugh escapes me—quick, sharp, real. It cracks at the edges, turning into something that burns behind my eyes.
Logan’s mouth twitches like he’s relieved he got it out of me.
“He also made Cameron carry his water like he was royalty,” he adds.
“That tracks,” I whisper, and the laugh fades.
Silence pours back in, thick and honest.
“I don’t want to go home,” I say, and I hate the honesty even as it leaves my mouth.
Logan doesn’t offer a pep talk. He doesn’t tell me to be strong. He doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay.
His pinky finger finds mine, hooking them together like a promise. “I know.”
Two words. Again, so simple, yet my chest caves a little, because he’s not trying to fix me. He’s just…here.
“I just,” I swallow hard, eyes burning, “I can’t take another thing ending.”
Logan’s gaze stays steady. His voice drops lower.
“Then don’t take it all at once,” he says. “Just take the next minute.”
I blink at him.
He looks almost annoyed at how simple his own advice is, like he hates that it’s true.
“You can do one minute,” he adds. “You’re good for one minute.”
We lie there a little longer, and for the first time since the buzzer, the ache in my chest is…quieter. Not gone. Just held.
Eventually, Logan shifts.
“Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s making a decision he doesn’t want to make. “Come on.”
He rolls to his side and pushes himself up, then offers me his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His palm is warm when my fingers meet his.
I let him pull me up.
I expect him to let go as soon as I’m standing, but he doesn’t.
His grip stays in mine like he’s anchoring me.
Then his fingers slide, deliberate and slow, threading through mine until our hands fit together like they’ve been doing it forever.
My breath catches.
I look down at our hands, then up at him.
Logan’s expression is calm, but his eyes are careful. Intent. Like he’s giving me something without forcing it into a confession.
“Is this…okay?” he asks quietly.
My throat burns.
I nod once, because if I speak, my voice will break.
“Yeah,” I manage.
Logan’s thumb brushes over my knuckles—one small sweep that feels like a small declaration and a question at the same time.
“Okay,” he whispers, and it sounds like relief.
We start walking toward the exit, hand in hand, the gym echoing around us.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not when we pass the benches and he grabs my bag that Jade must’ve left there. Not when we reach the double doors. Not when the cool night air hits my face and reminds me of what’s waiting.
He just holds on, fingers laced with mine, like if he keeps me connected to him, I won’t drift apart on the way home.
And for the first time all night, I let myself lean into it.
Just a little.
Just enough to breathe.