24. Sloane
SLOANE
Coach doesn’t say last week out loud.
He doesn’t have to.
It’s in the way he blows the whistle a little sharper. It’s in the way he makes us run one more set even when our legs are jelly, like he’s trying to squeeze every ounce of grit out of us before the season decides whether we deserve to keep breathing it.
Win the next game, and we move on.
Lose, and it’s over.
Junior year—done.
Just like that.
Which is ridiculous, because my dad is dying in our living room, and somehow I’m still supposed to care about a scoreboard.
And I do.
I hate that I do.
“Again,” Coach barks as we reset for another defensive drill.
My sneakers squeak against the hardwood as I slide, thighs burning, lungs tight. Jade is across from me, grinning like a menace even as sweat drips down her temple.
“Looking a little slow, Rhodes,” she chirps.
“Sounding a little mouthy,” I shoot back automatically, planting hard and cutting the angle.
Blakely swings around behind Jade, calm as a storm cloud. “If you two flirt any harder, I’m transferring.”
“Shut up,” Jade says, laughing through her breath.
My chest loosens—just for a second.
This is what the court gives me.
A place where my brain can’t hold every fear at once, because my body has demands, and the demands are simple: move, breathe, don’t fall.
Coach’s whistle cuts through the air again. “Scrimmage. Two minutes. Full intensity.”
The ball snaps into motion.
For the first thirty seconds, I’m locked in. I call screens. I cut baseline. I set a pick and roll off it with a clean pop, muscle memory doing what it does best.
Then a thought slips in like a knife between ribs.
This could be my last week.
Not just basketball.
Everything.
Last week of practice before the world takes another piece, and I’m too tired to pretend I can keep up.
My stomach flips.
I hesitate half a beat on a pass.
It’s enough for the defender to get a hand on it.
The ball skitters, and Coach’s whistle shrieks.
“Rhodes,” he snaps. “What the hell was that?”
Heat flares behind my eyes.
I jog back, jaw tight. “My bad.”
Coach’s gaze cuts through me. “You good?”
I swallow hard.
“Won’t happen again,” I say, flatly.
Coach studies me, expression hard. Then he nods once like he’s not buying it, but he’s letting it go—for now.
We restart.
I try. I really try.
But my focus keeps drifting to the house I left behind—Pops in his recliner, his walker parked too close like it belongs.
Cameron washing a mug that probably didn’t need washing.
Logan quiet on the couch with his brace and his ice pack, his eyes tracking the hallway like he’s counting what we don’t say.
Coach blows the whistle again.
“That’s enough for today,” he says, walking off the court.
I practically sprint to my bottle, because if I stop moving completely, I might actually collapse.
Jade and Blakely flank me like they always do, a silent formation.
Jade tips her head. “Okay. Talk.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Blakely arches a brow. “Do you want me to list the ways that’s not true, or do you want to make it easy and just admit you’re not fine?”
I glare. “You’re both annoying.”
Jade grins. “We know.”
My breath immediately starts coming in shorter bursts, and it has nothing to do with the physical strain that I’ve just put my body through.
Jade’s voice is steady. “You don’t have to make it smaller.”
My chest tightens. “I’m not—”
Blakely cuts in, calm. “Yes, you are.”
It makes me want to scream.
It also makes me want to breathe.
—
After practice, I change fast.
I don’t linger. I don’t sit and talk. I don’t let the normal girl stuff settle around me because it feels wrong, like I’m stealing time from someone who deserves it more.
Jade blocks my path anyway, leaning against the locker door with her arms crossed.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Home,” I say.
“To do what?” Blakely asks from behind her, tone too even.
I tighten my grip on my bag strap. “Be useful.”
Jade’s eyes narrow. “You’re going to go home and try to carry the world again.”
I glare. “It’s my world.”
“And you’re allowed to put it down sometimes,” Jade says, fierce.
Blakely steps closer, voice quieter. “You don’t have to play, you know.”
“No,” I snap automatically.
Jade sighs. “Sloane—”
“It’s okay if you need to step back, girl.” Blakely’s gaze holds mine. “You are going through hell right now.”
“I can handle it.” Anger flares inside me, hot and defensive. “I’m not broken.”
Jade’s voice softens. “That’s not an insult.”
I swallow hard because maybe it’s not, but it feels like one.
“I can’t take time off,” I say, tight. “If I stop, I’ll fall apart.”
Blakely nods slowly, like she understands exactly. “Okay. Then don’t stop.”
Jade exhales. “But let us help you not fall.”
My throat tightens.
I look away, blinking hard. “I’m leaving.”
Jade steps aside reluctantly. “Text us when you get home.”
Blakely adds, “And if you don’t—”
“I will,” I cut in, because I can’t handle the rest.
I grab my bag and leave before they can see my eyes shine.
—
By the time I pull into the driveway, the sun is already dipping, the sky turning that washed-out gold that makes everything look softer than it is.
I hate soft.
Soft is for people who aren’t counting down.
The basketball hoop silhouettes against the fading light, the same one Cameron used to dunk on until Pops yelled at him for hanging on the rim.
The house looks normal.
It pisses me off.
Because nothing inside it is normal anymore.
I step inside, and the smell hits first—coffee, food, and that faint clean antiseptic scent that clings to everything now.
“Tacos,” Cameron announces from the kitchen like it’s a celebration. “Because Pops demanded it, and I’m not arguing with a dying man.”
“Hi to you too,” I mutter, dropping my keys into the bowl.
Cameron grins. “Hey, Slo. Eat.”
My stomach flips. Everyone says that now, as if eating can fix anything.
Pops is in his recliner, blanket pulled up, walker close. He looks thinner today. Not “slimmed down” thinner—hollowed-out thinner. Cheekbones sharper, skin looser in places it shouldn’t be. A faint slack to his features, like his muscles are tired of pretending.
He’s eating. He’s trying.
His body just isn’t listening.
My chest tightens.
“There she is,” Pops says, and the smile he gives me is faint but real.
I cross the room and press a kiss to his temple. His skin is warm.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Practice?” he asks, voice a little rough.
“Good,” I lie smoothly.
Pops hums like he hears it but doesn’t have the energy to call me on it. “Good.”
Then I see Logan.
He’s near the hallway, leaning lightly against the wall like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. His brace is visible below his sweats, his weight shifted carefully. His hair is damp, like he washed up after rehab.
His gaze finds me.
For half a second, it’s normal.
Just…Logan.
Then his eyes flick to my mouth and away, and my pulse betrays me anyway.
I hate that the hate doesn’t fit right for what I feel toward him anymore, and maybe it never really did.
“Rhodes,” Logan says, voice steady.
“Brooks,” I shoot back on reflex.
Cameron sets plates on the table. “All right. Everyone sit. Pops, don’t try to carry anything.”
Pops lifts his mug as if to prove a point. “I’m still capable.”
Logan moves first, pulling out a chair for Pops like it’s instinct. Pops gives him a look that’s half grateful, half annoyed.
“I’m not helpless,” Pops mutters.
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Didn’t say you were. Just figured you’d prefer not to faceplant into guac.”
Pops huffs a laugh, rough around the edges.
My throat tightens at the way Logan got that laugh without trying too hard.
We eat.
And for a stretch of time, it’s almost okay.
Cameron talks about his practice, about some freshman who thinks he’s God’s gift to basketball and keeps getting blocked into next week. Pops makes a snide comment about footwork. Cameron argues. Pops smiles like the banter is medicine for his soul and exactly what the doctor ordered.
Logan doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s quick, sliding into the family rhythm like he never left.
And maybe that’s what makes my chest ache.
Because Logan has always fit here, even when I tried to pretend he didn’t.
Halfway through dinner, Cameron’s phone buzzes.
He checks it and tries to hide the grin. Fails.
I narrow my eyes. “Who’s that?”
Cameron’s grin turns innocent. “Just one of my buddies.”
“A buddy,” I deadpan.
“You have a buddy with a heart emoji next to his name?” Pops lifts a brow.
Cameron chokes on his drink. “It’s—shut up.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “Your buddy’s name is…Hannah?”
Cameron glares. “Don’t read my phone.”
“Don’t hold it at face level in front of everyone,” I shoot back, trying, and failing, not to laugh.
Cameron stands quickly, grabbing his keys like they’re a shield. “I’m going out for a bit.”
“To see your buddy,” Pops says, amused.
Cameron mutters, “I hate this family.” But his grin gives him away. He looks at Pops, voice softening. “Text me if you need me.”
Pops waves him off. “Go. Be young, but wrap it before you tap it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Dad.” Cameron bolts out the door as we all burst into laughter.
After a moment, Pops sits back, shoulders slumping like holding himself upright at the table cost him more than he wants to admit.
Logan’s gaze flicks over him in a quiet assessment.
Then Logan stands. “Want to get comfortable?”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “I am comfortable.”
Logan just lifts a brow.
Pops sighs, defeated. “Fine. Yeah.”
I stand immediately. “I can help.”
Pops looks at me, eyes tired but sharp. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”
“So has he,” I argue, chin tipping toward Logan.
“And he’s already stubborn,” Pops says. “I don’t need two of you.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “I can handle it.”
He moves carefully beside Pops, one hand hovering near his elbow without grabbing—support without making him feel weak.