She frowns like the concept offends her. “I wish you could stay again.”
“I know.” I crouch, brushing her hair back. “But I’ll be back.”
Tucker raises his dinosaur at me like it’s a warning. “Don’t go.”
My lungs lock for a second. “I have to,” I say gently. “But we can talk on FaceTime, deal?”
He thinks about it, then nods solemnly. “Deal.”
Marco gives me a look as we step outside—something that saysyou’re good with them, something that saysyou’re good,even if you don’t feel like it.
The air is like warm soup, the sky pale blue. We drive in comfortable silence to the community center, the city waking up around us.
It’s not fancy—just a squat building with faded paint, a parking lot with cracks, a mural on the side wall that looks like it was done by someone who cared enough to make it bright anyway. Inside, it smells like rubber soles, old basketballs, and floor cleaner.
It smells like my childhood.
Maria meets us near the entrance, clipboard in hand, ponytail swinging, wearing a T-shirt with the program logo stitched over the heart.
“Hey, Ollie,” she greets me, wrapping me in a quick hug—professional but affectionate—then hugs Marco, too, like they’re old friends. Which they are, in the way community work makes you family fast.
“Coach Marco,” she says, grinning. “We’re lucky today.”
Marco tips an imaginary hat. “Lucky is subjective.”
Maria laughs and gestures toward the gym. “They’re already bouncing off the walls.”
We step onto the court and the noise hits immediately—sneakers squeaking, balls dribbling, kids shouting at one another like the only thing that matters in the world is whether someone traveled.
A couple of the older ones spot me and freeze before they remember themselves and act cool. I’ve been here as often as possible for six weeks—longer than I planned, but some causes are worth the time and energy.
Maria claps her hands, commanding attention. “All right! Eyes up! We’ve got a special session today, and if you embarrass me, I will personally make you run suicides until you regret being born.”
A chorus of “Nooooo!” rises up.
I grin despite myself.
“Today,” Maria continues, “we’ve got Coach Marco Reyes joining Coach Ollie. That means you listen, you work, and you don’t ask for autographs until the end. Clear?”
A few kids groan dramatically. One kid raises his hand anyway.
Maria points. “No.”
The kid’s shoulders slump.
Marco elbows me lightly. “These kids are feral.”
“They’re kids,” I murmur.
“Feral,” he repeats.
We split them into groups. It’s muscle memory for me—warm-up drills, footwork, basic ball handling. I weave through the lines, correcting stances, encouraging, nudging.
Luca, a kid with curly hair and too-long limbs, keeps trying to cross someone up with flair he hasn’t earned.
“Luca.” I shake my head. I seriously like this kid, but I swear he never listens. “You got talent.”
He flashes a cocky grin. “I know.”
