Chapter 4
SLOANE
The mirror fogs the second I open the shower door.
Steam clings to the bathroom, thick and heavy, softening the edges of everything. The world feels quieter here, muted by warmth and white tile and the steady drip of water from the faucet I forgot to turn all the way off.
I stand there longer than I should, towel wrapped tight around my body, listening.
Nothing is wrong.
If nothing is wrong, then I don’t have to stop moving forward. I don’t have to ask questions I don’t want the answers to.
I wipe a circle clear in the mirror with my palm and meet my own gaze.
Hair slicked back.
Face bare.
Eyes steady.
Good.
If I look put together, I feel put together. That’s how this works. Always has.
I get dressed on autopilot—leggings, sports bra, team hoodie. I tug everything into place with practiced efficiency, the movements so familiar I barely have to think about them.
Basketball doesn’t ask questions.
It doesn’t care if I slept badly or if the house feels quieter than it should or if the wrong person is back under our roof.
It just asks me to show up.
And I can always do that.
Jade and Blakely are already in the locker room when I get there.
Jade sits cross-legged on the bench, her dark brown hair trapped neatly in a braid, retaping her ankle with slow, deliberate movements, each strip placed carefully, methodically. She’s always been like that—precise, thoughtful, steady in a way that makes you feel calmer just being near her.
Blakely, on the other hand, is sprawled across the bench like gravity doesn’t apply to her, shoes kicked off, socked feet propped up as she scrolls through her phone. Her blonde hair is in the craziest messy bun I’ve ever seen, and that just about sums up her personality.
“You’re late,” Blakely says without looking up.
I glance at the clock on the wall. “I’m two minutes early.”
She finally looks at me, blue eyes dead serious. “Emotionally late. We’ve been waiting to judge your outfit.”
Jade looks up and smiles. “It’s the hoodie. She’s hiding.”
“I’m not hiding,” I say automatically, dropping my bag at my feet.
Blakely snorts. “You say that every time you’re hiding.”
I sit to lace my shoes, tugging the laces tighter than necessary. These two have known me too long. They know my tells. They know when I’m locking things down instead of letting them breathe.
We met freshman year during open gym, back when everything felt raw and uncertain and I was clinging to basketball like it was the only thing that made sense.
I’d shown up early—of course I had—already running drills by myself, the echo of the empty gym amplifying every bounce of the ball. I told myself I just liked being prepared.
The truth was simpler.
I needed this.
Jade joined in without a word. She didn’t ask my name or where I was from. She just slid into the drill beside me, matching my pace like we’d planned it together. We ran suicides. Shot around. Pushed each other without speaking.
Only after we’d finished a full set, both of us bent over with our hands on our knees, did she finally look at me and say, “You’re not bad.”
It was the closest thing to a compliment I’d ever gotten.
Blakely arrived ten minutes later, loud and unapologetic, took one look at us, and said, “Oh good. You’re both intense. We’ll get along.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“You good?” Jade asks now, voice soft but eyes sharp.
“Yes,” I say too fast.
Blakely’s mouth curves into a knowing grin. “That was a lie.”
“I’m fine.”
Jade lifts a brow. “Logan’s back.”
My fingers still on the laces.
Blakely’s grin widens. “There it is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, resuming my shoes like my heart didn’t just kick into a faster rhythm.
“Sloane,” Jade says gently. “Your entire body just locked up.”
“He’s doing rehab for his leg at the hospital,” I reply. “He’s staying with us temporarily. It’s not a thing. Just convenient.”
Blakely laughs. “The phrase ‘not a thing’ has literally never meant that in the history of things.”
I stand, pulling off my hoodie. “Can we not do this before practice?”
Jade nods immediately. “Yeah. Later.”
Blakely sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m circling back.”
Practice is brutal in the best way.
Coach doesn’t ease up just because it’s January. If anything, he pushes harder. Conditioning drills bleed into scrimmage. Scrimmage bleeds into shooting. By the time we hit the final drill, my lungs burn and my legs shake.
I move instinctively, muscle memory carrying me through cuts, pivots, jumps. My body listens. My mind goes quiet.
This is where I’m best.
On a fast break, I drive hard to the basket, absorb contact, and finish through it. The sound of sneakers on hardwood, the echo of the ball hitting the floor—it all drowns everything else out.
Blakely clips my arm as we run back down the court. “Relax, killer,” she mutters. “You’re playing like you’re mad at something.”
“Maybe I am,” I shoot back.
Jade meets my eyes from the perimeter, something knowing in her expression.
Water break finally comes. I drop onto the bench, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my temples.
“You’re aggressive today,” Blakely says, flopping down beside me. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re always a little psycho, but today is extra.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” Jade answers. “In a way that suggests you’re avoiding something.”
I glare at both of them. “You’re both exhausting, and I truly hope neither of you is pursuing a degree in counseling.”
“And yet,” Blakely says, sipping her water, “we’re right.”
I don’t respond, because if I do, I might admit that every time I drive toward the basket, I think about Logan learning how to stand again or how I feel like my life is teetering on the edge of a giant canyon filled with every last one of my biggest fears.
I hate that my brain does that.
Jade hums softly as she packs her bag after practice, some old song I recognize but can’t place.
“You coming to dinner?” she asks.
“I can’t,” I say. “Family stuff.”
Blakely pauses mid-sock. “How’s Pops?”
“Fine,” I answer.
The word feels brittle the moment it leaves my mouth.
Jade studies me for a moment, then nods. She doesn’t push. That’s why she’s dangerous. She’ll let you sit there with the guilt that she knows you’re not telling her the truth and let you think you got away with it, even when you didn’t.
The January air bites at my skin when I step outside, the coolness sharp after the heat of practice. The drive home feels longer than usual.
The house is quiet when I walk in.
Too quiet.
Logan’s crutches are leaned neatly against the wall. His shoes sit by the door, lined up carefully, like he’s trying not to take up too much space.
It irritates me that I notice these small things about him. Bothers me even more that I know him well enough to know why he did it.
Pops is in the living room, lights low, TV murmuring softly. He’s sitting on the couch with one hand pressed to his temple.
“Hey,” I say, dropping my bag. “You okay?”
“Just a headache,” he replies. His voice is even but tired.
My breath catches in my throat.
He’s been off chemo for a year now. A full year. The doctors called it a win. MRIs and appointments every three months, but they’ve been cautiously optimistic.
For a while, things were normal again.
Lately, though…
He forgets small things. Gets tired faster. Rubs his temples like the world is too loud, even when it’s quiet around us.
“When did it start?” I ask.
“This morning,” he says. “Probably nothing.”
That’s what he always says.
The last scan was last week, and we’re still waiting on the results.
I get him a glass of water and take a seat beside him on the couch. He leans into me without realizing it, his weight and warmth a comfort I’ve always needed.
“You should lie down,” I say.
“In a minute,” he promises.
I help him to his room anyway and help him settle into bed, sitting beside him until his face relaxes once he’s asleep.
In the hallway, I press my back to the wall and close my eyes.
Nothing is wrong. It’s just the change in the seasons.
If I repeat the lie enough to myself, maybe it’ll become true.
Down the hall, a floorboard creaks, followed by careful footsteps, if you can even call his shuffling that.
I don’t have to look to know it’s Logan. My body knows and reacts in its own way, with my pulse kicking up and my stomach bursting with awareness.
I go to my room without looking his way and sit on the edge of my bed, hands pressed to my thighs.
I did everything right today.
I showed up. I worked hard. I kept moving.
And still, something feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.
Because no matter how fast I go, some things are catching up to me.
And I don’t know how long I can keep pretending they aren’t.