Chapter 30 Sloane
SLOANE
The wheelchair doesn’t belong in our driveway.
Neither does the wheelchair lift on the back of the van nor the two men in navy uniforms speaking in calm, practiced voices like this is just another Tuesday delivery—package dropped off, signature required.
But Pops is in that van.
He is coming home.
And my childhood house—the one that still smells like lemon cleaner and old basketball leather and Sunday dinner—feels too small to hold what’s about to come through the front door.
Except he’s not going to walk.
The thought hits like a bruise you don’t see until you press it.
Cameron paces near the front steps, phone in one hand, keys in the other, jaw set so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding.
His hair is still damp, like he showered but didn’t actually wash the fear off.
He’s wearing CSU sweats and a hoodie, but he looks like he’s about to suit up for war anyway.
Logan stands a few feet back, near the edge of the lawn, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to look casual and failing. He’s not wearing his brace and he moves smoother now—still careful, but not fragile.
His gaze flicks to me and holds for half a second.
Not soft.
Not romantic.
Just steady.
Like a hand between my shoulder blades, keeping me from tipping over.
When the van had slowed, turn signal ticking, and pulled into the driveway, my stomach flipped hard enough to make me dizzy.
When the driver killed the engine, everything went quiet.
Now, we are standing out here, just watching.
No birds. No wind. No neighbors. Like the whole street is holding its breath.
The back doors open.
The lift whirs.
Metal clicks.
And then Pops appears—on a stretcher first, elevated slightly, strapped in like the world doesn’t trust his body to stay upright.
He looks…smaller.
Not in the way he’d hate to hear me say. Not physically, exactly—he’s still built like the man who once paced sidelines with a whistle and a glare and made teenage boys sit up straighter just by existing.
But the hospital has taken something.
The left side of his face is still slack, the corner of his mouth a beat behind. His left arm rests strangely, tucked close, fingers not doing what fingers should. His cheeks look a little hollow, like the weight is sliding off him even though he’s been eating whatever we beg him to.
His eyes find us anyway.
Sharp. Warm. Annoyed.
“Jesus,” he says, voice thick but clear enough to aim. “You’d think I was royalty.”
Cameron exhales, a laugh that sounds like it hurts. “You’re dramatic.”
Pops’s good eye crinkles. “Runs in the family.”
I want to run to him. I want to climb onto that stretcher and press my face into his chest and pretend this is just a weird nightmare I can wake up from.
Instead, I take one step forward and stop.
Because the professionals are already moving. Because there are straps and wheels and rules. Because everything has become controlled.
One of the transport guys smiles politely. “Mr. Rhodes?”
Pops lifts his right hand like a lazy salute. “Present.”
“We’re going to bring you over and transfer you to the wheelchair to get through the doorframe,” the guy says. Calm. Gentle. Efficient.
Pops’s eyes flick to the front door like it personally offended him. “This house was built by cowards.”
Cameron snorts, but his expression flickers, cracks at the edges. “Stop talking.”
“Make me,” Pops mutters, like his body isn’t already doing it.
Logan shifts closer then—not pushing into the center, not taking over. Just stepping into the orbit like he knows where to be without being asked.
“Need me to move anything?” he asks Cameron quietly, practical.
Cameron’s gaze snaps to him, and for a second, I can see the tension there—tight thread pulled between gratitude and fear and everything Cameron doesn’t say out loud.
“Yeah,” Cameron replies finally. “Clear the hallway. The shower chair’s in the way.”
Logan nods once and moves, not limping, not hesitating, just doing. He disappears inside, and my chest tightens with something complicated because this house has always been a place Logan moves through like it’s his too.
That used to feel normal.
Now everything feels like it has consequences.
The transport team rolls Pops up the walkway slowly. The wheels make a soft rattling sound over the concrete that I will probably hear in my sleep for the rest of my life.
When they stop at the threshold, they transfer him carefully—hands under his shoulders, hips, knees. Pops grimaces, not from pain exactly, but from the indignity of being handled.
I hate the way his right hand grips the armrest like he’s trying to anchor himself to something.
I hate the way his left hand doesn’t.
He notices me staring and lifts his brow slightly, like he’s calling me out without words.
Don’t do that, kiddo.
Don’t look at me like I’m already gone.
I blink hard and step closer, forcing my face into something steadier.
“Hi,” I say softly.
Pops’s gaze softens. “Hey, kiddo.”
And that’s it.
Two words, and my throat burns.
The wheelchair moves forward. The hallway is clear now—Logan did it fast—and the transport team navigates the narrow space with practiced ease.
Our house has never felt this…tight.
Like the walls are too close. Like the ceiling is lower. Like the air is thicker.
Hospice equipment sits staged in the living room—folded walker, packs of supplies, a box of gloves, a transfer belt, a shower chair leaned neatly against the wall. It’s all arranged like it belongs here.
It doesn’t.
Pops’s eyes flick to it as they roll past, and something sharp flashes across his face—anger, maybe, or grief, or both.
Then he covers it with humor because that’s what he does when he’s scared.
“Looks like we’re starting a medical supply store,” he says.
A strangled sound makes its way out of Cameron. “Seriously?”
Pops’s smile tugs crooked. “What? It’s good business.”
Logan reappears in the hallway, hands empty, posture careful. He meets Pops’s eyes and nods—respectful, quiet.
Pops nods back like he’s grateful Logan’s here even if he won’t say it out loud.
They roll Pops into his room.
The bed looks too normal. Too soft. Too much like sleep and not enough like life. There’s a fresh set of sheets on it, the ones I always put on when I want to pretend I’m in control—white with a faint blue stripe.
The transport team transfers him again, slow and methodical.
Pops’s jaw clenches, breath sharp, but he doesn’t complain. He just takes it like he’s taking a hit he didn’t see coming.
Once he’s settled, one of the guys explains the basics—call buttons, transfer instructions, what to do if he feels dizzy or weak. Pops listens, eyes half-lidded, like he’s bored.
He’s not bored.
He’s furious.
When the transport team finally leaves, the house exhales in a way I can feel in my bones.
It’s just us now.
Us and the supplies. Us and the new reality.
Pops shifts slightly, trying to sit up straighter. His left shoulder doesn’t follow the way it should.
Cameron steps in immediately, adjusting pillows, tugging the blanket up like he can tuck death away if he folds the fabric tight enough.
Pops’s right hand catches Cameron’s wrist gently. “Don’t hover.”
Cameron’s laugh is sharp. “You almost died.”
“I didn’t,” Pops says. “I just…got inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient,” Cameron repeats, like he wants to throw something.
Pops’s gaze slides to me. “Sloane.”
I straighten reflexively.
“Yes?”
He studies me for a beat like he can see the frantic list running behind my eyes—shower schedule, meds, hospice visits, basketball practice, food, water, oxygen, everything.
“Breathe,” he says simply.
My chest tightens. “I am.”
He lifts a brow. “That wasn’t breathing. That was surviving.”
The word lands heavy.
Logan shifts at the doorway, quiet as a shadow, but I feel him there.
Pops continues, voice softer now, “You got practice today?”
My stomach drops. “I—”
Cameron’s head snaps up. “Pops, she doesn’t—”
Pops cuts him off with a look that could still stop a gym full of teenagers. “She does.”
Cameron’s mouth tightens. He looks at me like he wants to tell me to stay, like he wants to keep us all in one room where he can see us.
I want to stay.
I want to cancel practice and games and my entire life and sit at Pops’s bedside until he gets sick of my face.
But Pops is watching me with that coach stare.
The one that says I raised you to be strong.
The one that says don’t let this take everything.
“I can skip,” I say anyway, because I’m me.
Pops’s expression goes flat. “No.”
I flinch. “Pops—”
“You’re going,” he says, and his voice is rougher now, the words shaped carefully. “You’re not going to stop living because my body decided to be an asshole.”
My throat burns. “It’s not the same.”
“I know,” he says gently. “But it’s part of it. And I’m not gonna watch you drop everything you love just to prove you love me.”
Cameron looks away fast, jaw clenched.
Logan’s gaze flicks to Cameron, then back to me, steady.
Pops’s eyes soften. “Go run your ass on that court. Come home after. Yell at your brother for hovering. Make fun of Logan. Whatever you need to do. Just…go.”
A laugh tries to claw its way out of me and fails.
“I don’t make fun of Logan,” I say automatically.
Logan’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “She’s lying.”
Pops’s eyes crinkle. “Good. I like him.”
Cameron makes a sound of protest. “Pops.”
Pops’s gaze slides to Cameron. “What? I’m allowed.”
Cameron mutters, “You’re the worst.”
Pops’s crooked smile deepens. “And yet, I raised you.”
For a second—just a second—the room feels like our house again. Not a hospice home. Not a medical setup. Just a family arguing lightly because that’s what we do when we’re scared.
Then Pops rubs his temple, subtle, quick.
Cameron sees it instantly. His shoulders tense.
“I’m fine,” Pops says before anyone can ask.
Cameron’s voice goes flat. “Sure.”
Pops’s eyes flick to Logan. “You still got those ice packs stocked?”
Logan nods. “Yeah.”