21. Sloane
SLOANE
Two weeks can change a body.
Not in the dramatic way people pretend happens in movies—where someone wakes up and everything is suddenly different, clean-cut and obvious.
It’s quieter than that.
It’s a looser sweatshirt hanging on shoulders it used to fit. It’s hands that shake a little when they reach for a mug. It’s a face that still tries to smile, but the muscles don’t quite cooperate the same way they used to, like the effort costs more than it should.
It’s a walker sitting by the front door like a stranger that moved in and never asked permission.
And it’s February—close enough to Valentine’s Day that campus is choking on pink balloons and heart-shaped everything—while my birthday sits on the calendar like it’s supposed to mean something.
Like it’s supposed to be normal.
Jade rips a strip of athletic tape off with her teeth and glares at me like she can physically bully me into a better mood.
“Don’t do the spiral face,” she says.
“I’m not doing a spiral face,” I lie, tightening my ponytail.
Blakely, seated on the bench beside her, laces up her shoes slower than either of us, calm in the way that makes me feel both seen and slightly exposed. “You are,” she says gently.
I blow out a breath and stare at my locker like the metal can hold my thoughts in place.
The locker room smells like sweat and peppermint gum and the sharp, clean bite of disinfectant. The kind of smell that usually grounds me—routine, repetition, muscle memory.
Today it just feels like background noise to the loudest thought in my head:
Please let him make it.
Jade nudges my knee with hers. “He’s coming, right?”
My throat tightens. “He said he would.”
Blakely’s eyes soften. “And Logan?”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s practically self-defense. “Logan’s not the main character.”
Jade’s grin turns wicked. “He is in your brain, though.”
I glare. “Shut up.”
Jade laughs, unbothered. “It’s your birthday. You’re not allowed to glare at me on your birthday.”
“I’m allowed to do whatever I want,” I snap automatically.
Blakely’s mouth twitches. “That’s…very you.”
Jade points a finger at me. “Also. We have cupcakes.”
I blink, looking at Blakely. “You brought cupcakes?”
“We brought cupcakes,” Jade corrects, offended. “Coach already approved it. He said if you miss one free throw tonight, he’s making you eat two.”
“That’s not how nutrition works,” I mutter.
“That’s how punishment works,” Jade says brightly.
I shake my head and stand, rolling my shoulders like I can physically shake the heaviness off. “Okay. Can we just…focus?”
Jade salutes. “Yes, Captain.”
Blakely squeezes my hand briefly. Quiet. Solid. “We’ve got you.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
Then the assistant coach pokes her head in. “Two minutes.”
Jade claps her hands. “Let’s go win a game and make Sloane pretend she doesn’t love being celebrated.”
“I don’t love being celebrated,” I argue.
“You love being loved,” Jade sings as she stands.
I open my mouth to deny it—
And my phone buzzes in my locker.
One text.
Logan: we’re here.
My heart punches against my ribs so hard it actually hurts.
Jade sees my face. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
Blakely’s eyes soften. “He made it?”
I nod once, throat tight.
Jade grabs my shoulders. “Okay. No spiral face. We’re going to warm up, you’re going to ball out, and then you’re going to go hug your dad and not pretend you’re made of steel.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
We file out of the locker room, the gym noise swelling—music, announcer, shoes squeaking, the echo of a basketball bouncing in a big space.
I jog onto the court, bounce on the balls of my feet, and start my warm-up routine like my body knows exactly what to do even when my brain is trying to betray me.
Layups. Dribble lines. Shots from the elbow. Corner threes.
Everything is normal.
Until I glance up into the stands and see him.
Pops.
He’s at the front, not in his normal spot, because stairs are just about impossible at this point.
He’s standing with a walker in front of him, both hands wrapped around the handles like he’s anchoring himself.
His posture is still proud, but the weight loss is undeniable.
His cheeks are a little more hollow, the strong line of his jaw softened by fatigue.
There’s a slight slackness to his features that wasn’t there before, like his face is tired of holding itself up.
And he’s wearing my number. Beside him is Logan.
Not on crutches anymore, but still careful, steps and movements measured, brace over his jeans, one hand hovering near Pops like he’s ready to catch him if the world tilts.
Logan is wearing one of Cameron’s CSU shirts.
The gray one with the big block letters across the front.
My chest cracks open, and I almost stop moving.
My next shot clanks off the rim because my hands go stupid.
Jade whistles from the baseline. “Eyes on the ball, Birthday Girl!”
I blink hard, force myself to breathe, and then keep moving.
But my gaze keeps drifting back up.
Pops sees me looking and lifts one hand off the walker handle, giving me a small wave.
His smile is still Pops—warm, proud, stubborn as hell.
It’s his body that’s betraying him, not his spirit.
Logan’s eyes flick to mine. Just for a second.
Something quiet taking over his expression, the ghost of a soft smile hiding on his face.
Something like: He’s here. I got him here.
My throat tightens.
I look away before my face can shatter in front of everyone.
Because I’m the captain tonight.
I’m supposed to be sharp. Focused. Controlled.
But all I can think is that my father is standing with a walker in my gym wearing my number like it’s a badge he wants to carry before he can’t.
And Logan brought him.
Logan—who I told I didn’t have space for—put Pops in my world anyway.
Like he knew I needed it.
The horn blares, bringing us into the final minutes before tip-off.
Coach calls us in for final words. Jade and Blakely flank me like bodyguards.
Coach’s voice is steady, practical. “Energy. Defense first. Rhodes, you run the floor, you lead with your voice, and you trust your teammates.”
I nod. “Yes, Coach.”
Jade leans in and whispers, “Don’t look at the stands again until halftime.”
I glare. “I can do what I want.”
Blakely murmurs, “Maybe listen to her.”
I exhale. “Fine.”
The ball goes up.
And suddenly I’m in it.
The first quarter is fast, physical, loud. My body does what it knows—cuts, screens, drives, hard stops that make my knees burn.
I hit my first three, and the crowd cheers.
I don’t look at Pops.
I don’t let myself.
Because if I look, I’ll feel it too much.
At the end of the first quarter, we’re up by four. Jade shoves my shoulder. “See? You’re alive.”
I huff a breath. “Barely.”
Blakely smiles faintly. “That counts.”
The second quarter is messier. I miss two shots I normally don’t miss. Coach calls a timeout and grabs my face with his eyes.
“Rhodes,” he says, quiet but firm. “Be here.”
I swallow hard and nod. “I’m here.”
He studies me for a beat like he knows I’m lying by a fraction, then squeezes my shoulder. “Okay. Then do the next play right.”
I do.
We go into halftime up by six.
I jog toward the bench, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin.
And I look up.
I can’t help it.
Pops is seated now—walker folded beside his chair. His shoulders sag slightly, exhaustion heavier on him when he’s not standing tall.
Logan is sitting next to him, leaning in to say something that makes Pops chuckle, small and quiet.
The sight hits me like a punch to the sternum.
Because that’s my life now—moments I want to freeze and moments I’m terrified to lose.
Jade appears at my side, breathing hard. “Okay,” she says, voice softer. “If you want to go up there, go.”
I blink at her. “What?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s halftime. Coach is doing adjustments with the assistants. You have like three minutes. Go hug your dad.”
My throat tightens.
Blakely nods. “We’ll cover for you.”
I swallow hard and nod once.
I jog up the steps toward the stands, heart pounding harder than it did on the court.
Pops looks up when I approach. His face brightens like the lights don’t matter because I’m here.
“There she is,” he says.
“Hi,” I manage, voice thick.
I lean down carefully and hug him, because I’m afraid of how fragile he feels and furious that I have to be afraid.
He hugs me back—still strong, still Pops—but there’s less of him now. Less weight. Less resistance. Like he’s slowly becoming air.
“You’re killing it,” he says into my hair.
I pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re wearing my number.”
Pops grins faintly. “Damn right.”
Emotion surges so fast my eyes burn.
I blink hard.
Then I notice the walker folded beside him, and my chest tightens all over again.
Pops follows my gaze and shrugs like it’s nothing. “Just extra equipment.”
I snort through the ache. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Had to keep up with you and your fancy shoes,” Pops teases.
I laugh, but it cracks at the end.
Then my gaze slides to Logan.
He stands slowly, careful with his knee, and for a second, I don’t know what to do with him in this moment.
Because he’s not my teammate.
He’s not my brother.
He’s not my boyfriend.
He’s just…Logan.
And he’s wearing Cameron’s CSU shirt like he belongs here.
Logan’s eyes meet mine. “Great job out there,” he says quietly.
My stomach flips.
“Thanks,” I manage.
Pops’s smile turns knowingly smug, and I want to elbow him.
Logan shifts his weight, gaze flicking to Pops. “You need anything?”
Pops waves him off. “I need her to focus so she can win.”
“I will,” I promise automatically, because if I promise it out loud, maybe the universe will listen.
Pops squeezes my hand. “Go play.”
I nod, then turn to jog back down.
Before I go, I glance at Logan again.
He gives me a small nod.
Like: Go. I’ve got him.
My throat tightens.
I sprint back to the court before my emotions can knock me over.
—
We win.