“I always felt like the fuckup, you know? Everyone else had their thing figured out so early. Like there was this mold of what a Hastings should be, and I couldn’t fit it. Couldn’t find my sport, couldn’t be what you wanted.”
“Christ, being a Hastings isn’t about some fucking sport,” Mom says.
“Look at me,” Dad says. “I’m useless at all that athletic shit.”
“Yeah, but I never…” I trail off, running a hand through my hair. “Never quite matched up to you either, Dad.”
“Match up? You got into Princeton, while I dropped out of community college. Found my way by pure fucking luck. You’remore like us than you think—stubborn bastards who figure it out in their own time.”
A tension I’d been carrying for years loosens in my chest.
“Thanks. These past months have stripped away all the bullshit I was chasing: the headlines, the attention, the fucking accolades. All shallow validation I thought meant something.” A harsh laugh escapes me, bitter and self-deprecating. “Christ, it sounds even more pathetic out loud. But seeing Em fence, watching her killer instinct take over when she nails a technique—for the first time, I’m not thinking about my own glory. I want to build something real with this sport. Something that actually matters.”
“We’re here for you,” Mom says, her hand still steady on my shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”
“Coaching. Been thinking about it.” My fingers drum against my leg, a restless rhythm. “Watching Em fight, seeing that raw talent, it’s fucking different. Never felt anything like it.” The admission costs me something.
Mom’s eyes dart to Dad, and she smirks. “Pay up.”
He mutters a curse, fishing out a hundred from his wallet.
I exhale sharply. “What’s this about?”
“Had a bet going about which of you kids would end up coaching. My money was always on you.”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out hard.
Dad’s wry smile confirms it. “I was betting on Brooklyn. Don’t tell her, though; she’ll lose her shit.”
“The Olympics aren’t off the table. Next one, maybe after, if this disciplinary shit clears up. But…” The words stick in my throat. “I could use some pointers. On coaching. If you’re offering, Mom.”
“I’d love nothing more. And Dante? Whatever path you choose—competing, coaching, anything—we’re in your corner. Always have been.”
The silence settles heavy. Mom gets a look in her eye. The one that makes me want to bolt.
“So,” she drawls, sharing a knowing glance with Dad, “are we going to talk about how you can’t take your eyes off Reese whenever she’s in the room?”
“Mom—”
“She’s right. You’ve got the same dopey look I had when I first met your mom.”
He pulls Mom to her feet, their hands finding each other with practiced ease. They’ve always been like this. Completely in sync.
“Sometimes,” Dad continues, brushing a kiss against Mom’s forehead, “you just know.”
“Or you do what your father did and buy an entire basketball team to have an excuse to talk to me. God knows what kind of grand gesture you’re planning.”
I stare at my hands, suddenly finding the tweed armrest below me fascinating. “Mom, Dad…I need…fuck, I need your help with something.”
“We’re here,” Mom says. I feel sixteen again.
“I think I’m in love with her.” The confession tears out of me, raw and unpolished.
“When you think, you know,” Dad says quietly.
I drag my fingers through my hair, messing up the styling. “That’s the thing—I’ve kept something from her. Something important. And now that I’ve fallen for her, it’s eating me up inside.”
Mom cranes her neck against Dad’s suit jacket. “Listen to me. You’ve learned to have better judgment, sweetheart. If you held something back, it wasn’t out of malice. But now you need to be brave and face this head on.”
