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But she walked away. She tapped out.
All of it still hurts. Not in a butthurt, pride-scalded kind of way.
In a real, honest, wounded, “I couldn’t be what she needed” kind of way.
Last time, I pressured her. Maybe that was why she followed me to LA.
I’m not making the same mistake again.
The third day, we’re twenty minutes in when one of the kids is still sitting on the bench instead of playing. The camp director mentioned this kid’s had a rough time lately.
I duck out and grab my water bottle, using the drink as an excuse to stand next to him.
“You sleep?” I ask.
He blinks up at me. “Nah, I’m awake.”
“I meant do you sleep? You got that look like you don’t sleep.” His eyes are gray and tired, as if he’s far older than his years.
“I keep thinking how I abandoned my dad,” the kid says. “I’m not living with him anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s seeing someone. It was court ordered, which is why I’m in foster care.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
I rub a hand through my hair. “You know, your dad’s job is to look out for you, not the other way around.”
I hold out a hand, and he takes it, joining in the play.
I’m still thinking of that as we go back to drills.
The kids are especially lax on defense, letting me get to the rim for a dunk.
“That was lazy as…” I trail off as I hear a yipping sound. The next instant, a small, furry form is weaving between my legs at warp speed. “Waffles?”
He dances, panting happily, his wiggly body clad in a Kodiaks jersey.
“Slow your roll, Big Dub,” a familiar voice calls.
I look over to the side of the court. Rookie and Miles and Atlas. It knocks the wind out of me in a way I can’t blame on the court.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Waffles needed to take a dump. Guess he found the perfect spot.”
The dog sniffs eagerly at my shoe, and I step out of the way.
“Don’t even think about it. I’ll dunk you,” I warn him, and he whines.
“Let’s make this a real game, yeah?” Miles suggests. “Shirts and skins.”
He tugs off his T-shirt and steps onto the court, and hollers go up.
I want to remind them that’s not why I’m here, but then I feel it—the hint of fires long banked inside me.
