Chapter 8 Sadie
eight
Sadie
GOLDEN HARBOR (LOCALS ONLY) - Thread
Carla B.: Does anyone know the young man behind the rec center?? He is GRUNTING VERY LOUDLY and flinging what looks like ropes?? Should I call someone??
Terry P.: Carla, sweetie, they’re called battle ropes.
Carla B.: Well he is battling something back there.
Donna R.: Pretty sure that’s the new guy who moved in next to the center. The tall one.
Carla B.: No one with arms like THAT is allowed to have sad eyes.
Moderator: Reminder: Please refrain from speculating about neighbors’ emotions.
I snorted when I saw the thread. It took me about five seconds to figure out exactly who Carla was talking about. And another five to walk to the window and peer through to see for myself.
Colson. In his backyard. Sweating. Working on ropes that are tied to a tree. The backyard slopes down so he’s awkwardly on an incline.
The grunting makes sense. Catching the attention of some locals like Carla, who has never missed a chance to be publicly thirsty in her life.
I swear, she used to walk up and down the beach whenever she heard there were attractive older men here with their families. She’d deny it, but I’m all over it.
He has a jump rope lying on the grass, a couple of free weights, and a resistance band. His T-shirt clings to his back, and his arms flex as he moves the ropes.
Colson, who did come back to practice. Who keeps telling me we won’t see him the next time but every day at the last minute, he strolls in. I don’t know who is even giving him the details on the practice schedule. Probably one of the kids. He’s slowly becoming one of their favorites.
I stopped before I meant to, caught between assessing his form and staring like an idiot. Before I could talk myself out of it, I’m out of the rec center and walking toward Colson.
He’s been showing up for us. Now, I can try and show up for him. Hopefully he’ll see it that way.
Gently, I try to greet him. I definitely don’t want to scare him. The headline you don’t want to see is NBA Player Has Head Injury After Local Trespasses, Startling Him.
He’s wearing earbuds, which makes sense as to why he can’t hear me. Or, maybe he’s doing his best to pretend like I don’t exist.
Stepping in closer to him, I wave my hands, doing my best not to look like a creep. It’s not until I’m almost within arm’s length of the rope that he picks his head up, sees me and stops.
Not before donning that perfect scowl.
As he takes his earbuds out, sweat dripping down his face, his brows knit together.
“Uh, hey. Hi.” I try to sound unaffected. Like, who has the right to be this gorgeous? “Tough terrain out here.”
His hands rest on his hips as he tries to catch his breath. “Ummm…” Colson looks around. “Sure?”
The pause is as awkward as the unlevel ground beneath our feet.
“What’s up?”
Colson is talking while I look around, wondering if Carla or any of the local lurkers are anywhere close. Maybe peeking out of their windows or taking a long walk, including a specific street.
“Sadie…” He waves his hand. “Do you need something?”
Before my brain catches up to my mouth, I reply, “You.” To make it worse, I clap and point.
Colson says nothing, but his brows push into his forehead and his mouth twists into the start of a grimace.
“No, not you. That’s—” My fingers touch my temples, like I have the ability to turn back time. “Let’s start again.” I take in a deep breath and sigh it out. “You,” I emphasize, “should come work out in the rec center.”
“You…want me to come work out?” he asks slowly, like he’s translating my words from a different language.
“Yes,” I reply. “One, your backyard is a death trap. Two, we don’t have any kids today. Three, we have those big industrial fans that make you feel like you’re in a Nike commercial.”
He seems to soften with each reason. I mean, the fans are legitimate, considering it’s unseasonably hot for early June. It’s only going to get hotter.
Colson wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt—flash of abs, hello—and nods once. “Give me two minutes.”
He grabs his water bottle, coils the ropes, and jogs inside behind me. His shoulder gives the slightest hitch as he slings the jump rope around his neck, and I pretend not to notice.
Inside the rec center, the hum of the lights fills the quiet. No squeaking sneakers. No echoing yells. Just an empty court with one overhead light shining in the center.
The moment I push the door fully open, the automatic fans along the ceiling roar to life, sending cool air down in slow, sweeping waves.
“Wow,” he admires, glancing up. “You were right on the fans.”
“I told you. Nike commercial.” I toss him a ball from the rack, then grab my own.
We walk out onto the court, the fans ruffling our shirts, the whole place ours. It reminds me of my college days when I’d grab a friend and we’d screw around for a few hours… waste time in the place that held all my hopes and dreams.
Colson wanders to the rack of balls and I pretend not to notice. He switches balls, testing the new one with a bounce, the sound echoes throughout the empty gym. I walk over and do the same.
And then it feels like I’m home. Me and a basketball.
We both do our own thing on separate sides of the court. It feels good. Time seems to run when I’m on the court, like I used to do before the injury that took me out. The one I agonize over when I’m feeling particularly pathetic and need to throw myself a pity party.
I take a few dribbles and pull up for a gentle jump shot. The ball arcs perfectly—every coach I’ve ever had would be proud—and smacks off the back rim, bouncing hard to the left. My right knee twinges as I land. Still. Six years and I can feel every weather change.
Colson’s eyes track it. Of course they do. His gaze flicks down to my brace, then back to my face. It’s the first time I’ve worn it in front of him, considering it’s not something I need to coach—only when I’m getting as close as I can to the sport that built me.
“You over-rotate a little on that knee,” he remarks. Not unkind. Not pitying. Just noticing. “You been rehabbing it lately?”
“Define lately.” I force a smile, jogging after my rebound. “It works. Mostly.”
He doesn’t push, but I catch the wave of what feels like concern in his expression. For a man who thinks nobody sees him, he sure sees everything.
He steps back to the three-point line, dribbles once, and goes up for a shot. His form is textbook—until the follow-through. His right shoulder tightens, his face pinches, and the shot sails short, clunking off the front rim.
I blink. “Was that… on purpose?”
“No,” he mutters.
“Cool. So we’re both disasters.”
His mouth twitches. Barely, but it’s there. A ghost of a smile.
We fall into a slow rhythm—rebounds, easy layups, lazy passes that don’t test his shoulder or my knee too much. The fans push air over us as our shadows streak across the shiny court.
I see him watching me so I pass him the ball. He catches it—just one, and tosses it lightly back to me. “I used to hit those threes in my sleep,” he admits, nodding toward the spot where his shot bricked. “Now my shoulder….”
His words drift off and it feels like I’m on the verge of something. Like he’s about to crack open the shell and let me peek inside. But he stops, and I don’t feel like pushing him today.
I dribble in place. “Well. Lucky for you, today is just us. We’re allowed to suck.”
He exhales, quiet but almost a laugh. “Didn’t realize that was on the schedule.”
I spin the ball on my palm. “It is now.”
Colson stares at me for a second too long before a smile hits his lips and he looks to the floor, almost as if he’s hiding from it.
Part of me wants to see if he’s going to commit to helping me out. I should know, for the kids, or that’s what I keep telling myself.
I walk to the bleacher that has my phone and say, “Should probably exchange numbers?” My voice comes out wobbly and unsure. “Since you’re my new assistant coach. And we still have to get the dent in your car fixed.”
Colson eyes me, holding the ball in the crook of his elbow, the other hand resting on his hip. “I’m next door.” He says this in a way that makes it feel like he doesn’t want me to have his number. “And I’m not your assistant coach.”
I decide to leave the coaching details fuzzy—enough that he might actually bite and continue helping me.
“For how long though? No offense but you seem a bit like a flight risk. Maybe I’m not there to step in at the grocery store next time and the tourists run you out of town.
” I shrug my shoulders, melting into the facade of the joke.
“Then you’d be off the hook,” he answers, so matter of fact.
I roll my eyes. “And you’d leave me with that guilt? No way. No thanks.” I walk closer, about to give him my phone.
I swear he’s going to smile, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes the phone, enters in his first name and number, and hands it back to me.
We stay in the gym for I don’t know how long. This wasn’t in my plans today and I’m actually surprised he decided to take me up on the offer.
That’s the thing about Colson Burke, though. He seems like he’s full of surprises.