Chapter 12 #3
Me: I’m going to send money home when I get paid. I picked up a few jobs to help cover what Stanford costs.
His answer arrives before I finish wondering how much I can afford.
Dad: No.
Me: Dad—
Dad: Keep your money.
Another message follows.
Dad: I took on more work.
My stomach drops.
Me: What kind of work?
Dad: Private lessons. Weekend clinics. Helping with another program across town.
Me: You already work all the time.
Dad: Not your problem.
I start typing, erase it, then try again.
Me: You don’t have to do that.
Dad: I do.
The bubble disappears.
A full minute passes before another text comes through.
Dad: I shouldn’t have put my dream on your back.
My eyes burn.
I read it once.
Then again.
Dad has never apologized easily. Not to players. Not to parents. Not to officials after technical fouls he insisted were misunderstandings.
I wipe beneath one eye before the tear reaches my cheek.
Dad: I thought we wanted the same thing because you were always there.
There it is.
The misunderstanding that shaped both of us.
He saw me in the gym and thought I chose his future.
I was choosing him.
Me: I wanted to be with you.
The words sit between us.
No typing bubble.
No answer.
I nearly lock the phone when it appears.
Dad: I know that now.
My throat closes.
I lie back across the neatly ironed sheets and stare at the ceiling.
Maybe I was unfair.
Maybe he was selfish.
Maybe we loved each other and built the wrong life around it.
More than one thing can be true.
Me: I’m still mad.
His response comes quickly.
Dad: You get that from your mother.
Me: I get everything useful from Mom.
Dad: There’s my girl.
I laugh through the tears.
Me: I actually love one of my jobs. I think I understand you more than you realize.
Dad: What job?
I hesitate.
Basketball.
The one word that could reopen everything.
So I choose the least believable answer available.
Me: Pet groomer.
Dad: What?
Me: I shampoo dogs at Petco. Sometimes I style them.
Dad: Hannah.
Me: I’m gifted with poodles.
Dad: You’re allergic to dogs.
Me: Only emotionally.
Three dots appear.
Dad: Tell me the truth.
I smile at the screen.
Me: I’m not really grooming dogs.
Dad: I gathered that.
Me: I coach a boys’ basketball team.
Nothing appears for several seconds.
Then:
Dad: What age?
Me: Thirteen.
Dad: You coach thirteen-year-old boys?
Me: Twice a week. Games on weekends.
Dad: What offense?
That is his first real question.
Not how I got hired.
Not whether the parents know I never played.
Not whether I’m qualified.
What offense?
I wipe beneath my eye.
Me: Four-out motion right now. They’re still learning to pass, cut, and fill without becoming furniture.
Dad: Good age for motion. Makes them learn to read instead of memorizing spots.
Me: That’s what I thought.
Dad: Zone or man?
Me: Man. They need footwork before anyone lets them hide inside a zone.
His typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Dad: Good.
One word.
It lands harder than praise from any professor.
Dad: How are they?
I send him the team picture.
Eli stands in the back with his glasses sliding down his nose. Tyler holds the ball like someone might steal it between photographs. The rest crowd around me, grinning.
Dad takes a while to answer.
Dad: They look happy.
Me: Most days.
Dad: You look happy too.
I enlarge the picture.
He’s right.
I’m wearing his old jersey with my whistle around my neck and one arm behind Eli’s shoulders. My smile is wide, free of the careful expression I wear in most photographs.
Me: I am.
Dad: I’d like to see that.
My chest tightens.
Me: The picture?
Dad: You coaching.
Another message follows.
Dad: Maybe I could fly out. Tour the campus. See where you’re living and what you’re studying.
I sit up straighter on the bed.
Dad: If you’d let me, I’d be honored to watch one of your games.
The tears come before I can stop them.
He spent my childhood asking me to wait while he coached his boys.
Now he wants to sit in the stands and watch me.
Me: You’d really come all the way out here for a thirteen-under game?
Dad: I’d come to see my daughter coach.
I press the heel of my hand beneath my glasses.
Me: They aren’t exactly state-title material yet.
Dad: Neither was my first team.
Me: Eli is six feet tall and still scared of rebounds.
Dad: Then teach him not to be.
Me: Tyler thinks passing violates his constitutional rights.
Dad: Every team has one.
A laugh breaks through my tears.
Dad: Send me the schedule.
Me: I will.
Dad: Proud of you, kid.
The words blur on the screen.
Me: Thanks, Dad.
Dad: Call tomorrow?
I look toward the rain-darkened window.
Me: Yeah. I’d like that.
Dad: Love you.
The words feel like the final few feet of a bridge neither of us knew how to finish.
Me: Love you too.
I set the phone beside me.
For several minutes, I stay stretched across the bed while the radiator knocks and the faucet drips in the corner.
Then another message appears.
Not Dad this time.
Kane: Your seat is still empty, Bookworm.
I glance at the clock.
If I change now, I can make tipoff.
I sit up.
My clean sheets wrinkle beneath me.
For once, I leave them that way.