Chapter 54 Sloane
SLOANE
Senior Year; Championship Game
The gym smells like varnished wood mixed with popcorn and a whole lot of nerves.
It always has—every season, every tip-off, every moment that mattered—but tonight it feels louder.
Like the air is packed too tight for my lungs to work right.
Like the entire state of California is sitting in these bleachers, holding its breath, waiting to see if I’m going to turn into the version of myself that can finish this…
or the version that still feels like she’s walking around with a hole cut straight through her ribs.
The banners on the wall get fuzzy when I look up at them, the faces in the crowd blurring together.
Because there should be one more person here.
There should be one more voice.
One more proud, loud whistle.
One more hand lifting to wave at me from the stands, like he can’t stand not being seen by his kid for even a second.
I don’t let myself look for him.
I learned the hard way that if I look for something that isn’t there, it can pull me under.
Coach calls our names for introductions. The crowd roars. Lights hit my face. I jog out with a smile that I’ve practiced in the mirror a hundred times since Pops died—wide enough to fool the cameras, steady enough to fool the people who want a story.
And then my eyes find them.
Courtside. Front row. Cameron’s broad shoulders angle toward the court like he’s guarding me even from a folding chair. His jaw is set, but his eyes are glass-bright in the way he thinks no one notices.
Logan is sitting next to an open seat, Cam on the other side of the empty space. Close enough that I can see the way his knee bounces when he’s trying to play it cool.
Logan is wearing my jersey. My number stretched over his chest.
But between them, the empty chair has a shirt stretched across the back, a cartoon basketball and bold letters reading:
I THE POINT GUARD
The breath leaves my body so fast it feels like a punch.
They made sure he could be here, even in spirit.
Logan catches my tear blurred stare and grins, like he’s proud of himself, but I know it’s really that he’s proud of me.
I survived. I survived the hardest eleven months of my life. I learned to laugh again. To live again.
His cocky smirk breaks free when he realizes I’m still staring, and he sends me a wink.
I shake my head once, but I’m smiling when I do it.
Cheesy. Insufferable. Perfect.
The referee’s whistle shrieks. The ball goes up.
And for a second, everything else disappears.
—
Championship games are made of moments that don’t feel real until they’re already over.
A fast break where Jade threads a pass between two defenders like she’s splitting atoms.
Blakely draining a corner three so clean it doesn’t even touch the rim.
My hands catching the ball at the top of the key, heart hammering, legs burning, crowd roaring like it’s trying to rip the roof off.
I take one dribble.
Then another.
The defender shifts left, and I go right, shoulder dipping, hips turning—instinct so old it lives in my bones.
The lane opens.
And when the ball leaves my fingertips, it feels like prayer.
Time slows.
And for a brief, suspended moment, I swear I can feel him.
Like Pops is right there—hand on my back, voice in my ear.
That’s my kid.
The ball drops through the net.
Swish.
The sound is clean. Holy.
Somewhere in the stands, Logan jumps up, and Cameron yells something that definitely isn’t appropriate for national television.
I don’t hear the words.
I just hear the joy.
For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like joy is something I have to earn through pain.
It feels like it can exist alongside it.
The gym explodes.
My teammates scream and pile onto me, bodies crushing, sweat and laughter and tears everywhere all at once. Jade’s crying. Blakely is shrieking like she’s feral. Coach is hugging us so hard he’s shaking.
And I—
I can’t breathe.
Not because I’m tired.
Because happiness is terrifying when you’ve learned how quickly it can be taken.
I stumble out of the pile, and my eyes find him again.
Logan is halfway onto the court before someone stops him, and he’s grinning so hard there are actual tears trying to escape.
Cameron follows slower, his own eyes damp, hands braced on his hips like he’s trying not to fall apart where people can see.
I run straight to them.
Logan catches me first.
He wraps me up, hard, tight, without a single hesitation, and when my feet lift off the ground, I let it happen, because for once I don’t want to be strong. I don’t want to be in control.
I want to be held.
“You did it,” Logan says into my hair, voice wrecked. “You did it!”
My face is buried against his neck, and his jersey fabric scratches my cheek. My number. My name.
My throat closes.
“I wish he saw it,” I whisper.
Logan’s hold tightens—not like he’s trying to fix it. Like he’s making space for the truth.
“He did,” he says softly. “He saw it all, baby.”
I pull back and blink at him.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Logan’s mouth tips into the tiniest smile. “Okay.”
Behind him, Cameron clears his throat like he’s trying to pretend he’s not crying.
“You did amazing, Slo,” Cameron says, voice rough.
I turn.
More tears escape his eyes as he wraps me in a tight hug.
“You were—” Cameron swallows hard. “You were insane.”
I let out a laugh that’s half-sob. “Thanks.”
Cameron steps closer and pulls me into a one-armed hug, squeezing too tight, like he’s making sure I’m real.
“I’m so proud of you,” he mutters into my hair.
Then, because he’s Cameron, he adds, “You gotta let go of me before I start crying.”
Logan snorts.
I wipe my cheeks. “You’re already crying.”
Cameron’s jaw works on a laugh. “Just the fumes of your stench getting to me.”
Logan meets my eyes over Cameron’s shoulder and lifts his brows.
I smile at him.
Then the smile cracks open into something softer.
Something that almost feels like peace.
—
The cemetery is quiet in a way that feels unfair, even the birds seeming to sense that I need a minute of peace.
Logan’s hand is in mine as we walk, fingers laced, his thumb rubbing small circles into my knuckles like he’s reminding me that my body is still here, still breathing, still held.
Cameron came with us, but he stayed by the car.
He said he wanted to give me a minute, but it’s been almost a year, and my brother still hasn’t been able to visit the gravesite. The small gravel parking lot is the closest he’s come.
I know Pops isn’t here, but I come visit him often regardless. It gives me a sense of peace, as if it’s the last thread tying yesterday to tomorrow.
We stop at the headstone.
My legs go strange and wobbly the way they always do when I come here, like my body wants to fall into the earth with him.
Logan squeezes my hand once. A quiet anchor.
I stare at the name carved in stone.
The dates. The dash between them.
A tiny line trying to hold the entire legacy of the most incredible man.
I swallow.
“Hi, Pops,” I whisper.
The words sound small against the sky.
Logan shifts beside me, close but not crowding, letting me lead.
“We won,” I tell the stone, like he doesn’t already know. Like he isn’t the reason I fought for the ball when my lungs were on fire and my hands were shaking. “We won the championship.”
My voice breaks, and I press my lips together, breathing through it.
“I hit the shot,” I add, because he’d want the details. He’d want the play. The timing. The way it felt.
Logan’s thumb stills against my hand.
“I was scared,” I admit, swallowing. “I thought…I thought I wouldn’t be able to do anything again without you.”
I laugh softly, the sound jagged. “But…you know me. I’m stubborn, just like you.”
A breeze slides through the trees.
For a second, I can almost hear him.
That’s my girl!
My eyes burn, I take a breath, and look at the headstone again.
“You would’ve been so annoying about it,” I whisper. “You would’ve told everyone within a ten-mile radius that your daughter’s team won.”
Logan makes a quiet sound beside me—half laugh, half ache.
I glance at him.
He’s looking at the grave like he respects it. Like he knows exactly how much of my life is buried here and how much of it is still standing.
I turn back to Pops.
“And…I’m okay,” I say, even though it’s not fully true. Even though it’s not fully false. “I’m getting there, anyway.”
My throat tightens.
“Logan’s still here,” I whisper. “He’s…he’s taking care of me.”
Then, because Pops always deserved honesty, I add, “And I’m letting him.”
Logan’s fingers tighten around mine.
I swallow hard and force the next words out, because they’ve been sitting in my chest for months like a stone.
“Thank you,” I tell Pops. “For loving me the way you did. For raising us. For making us brave.”
The wind brushes over my cheeks like a kiss.
I close my eyes for a beat.
When I open them, I feel lighter and heavier all at once.
Logan shifts closer.
I squeeze his hand and whisper, “I love you,” because Pops would want to hear that part. He’d want to know I didn’t let fear steal one more thing from me.
Logan’s eyes flick to mine, warm and stunned, like he’ll never get used to hearing it.
“What was that?” he murmurs. “Didn’t hear you.”
I lift a brow through the tears. “Might need your ears checked.”
Logan laughs, low, genuine, and it’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. “I love you, baby.”
I step closer to the grave and wipe my cheeks with the heel of my hand.
“Okay,” I tell Pops, voice steadying. “We’re going to go now. But…we’ll be back.”
I swallow.
“Love you,” I whisper.
Then I turn.
Logan’s hand finds mine again immediately, fingers threading through like it’s the easiest truth in the world.
We walk back toward the car.
The sun is warm, the air warm.
And for the first time since Pops left, the future doesn’t look like an empty hallway.
It looks like a path.
One we’re walking together.
I tighten my grip on Logan’s hand and let my voice drop into something lighter, something Pops would’ve appreciated.
“So,” I say, sniffing. “State champions, huh?”
Logan smirks. “You’re kind of a big deal.”
I scoff. “Don’t start.”
He leans closer, mouth near my ear, voice low and full of trouble. “End game, remember?”
I shove his shoulder. “God, you’re insufferable.”
Logan laughs, and the sound chases something cold out of my ribs.
And as we step out of the cemetery—hand in hand, side by side—I realize something I didn’t think I’d ever be allowed to feel again:
The man who inspired me…his story ended.
But ours?
Ours is just beginning.
THE END