“This summer. I’ll bring him to Detroit.”
“That is good.” She paused. “You know, your father saw the championship on television. The prison has a common room. He called this morning. He said you looked happy.”
Hearing about my dad usually made my jaw lock up. But this time, nothing. Just the faint hum of the line and the weight of the phone against my ear.
“Tell him I made it.”
My words landed somewhere between afuck-that-guyand a shrug. There was no anger behind them, or that old ache cracking open whenever dad got brought up. To me, nowadays, he was just a guy in a cell who’d never see the ice I skated on.
“I will tell him,” she said softly. “I love you, Lekha.”
“Love you too, Mama.”
After the call ended, I dropped the phone onto the stripped mattress and sat there in the quiet. Telling Mama everything—the contract, Karter, and the whole truth about what I felt for him—made the air in the cramped attic feel lighter.
A few hours later, we had traded our sweatpants for team blazers and sat in a banquet hall that stank of wilting flowers and expensive steak.
Round tables packed the low-ceilinged room, every seat filled with teammates and parents and donors, forks clinking cheap ceramic over the dull roar of conversation.
Mama couldn’t make the trip. A Greyhound ticket from Detroit wasn’t in our budget, not just yet, especially with the nursing home cutting her hours again.
Karter walked in beside me and pulled out the chair to my right. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t glance around to clock who might be staring. Just sat down and reached for the basket of breadrolls in the center of the table. His leg pressed against mine under the tablecloth and stayed there.
I leaned back in my chair. The room was packed with players and parents and guys in Ridge Cross blazers who’d written checks big enough to get their names on plaques.
A few months ago, I’d have scanned every table for Trenton’s crew, clocked where the AD was standing, and tracked the exits for a reason to leave early without even thinking about it. Those were habits I’d learned from four years of knowing exactly how fast things could turn.
But tonight, none of it mattered. Trenton was gone. The investigation was dead. The rumors still floated around, sure, but they’d lost their teeth.
Karter’s hands rested on the white tablecloth, easy and loose. He wasn’t stuffing them in his pockets. Wasn’t angling his body away from mine. Whatever the guys wanted to whisper about us, he’d stopped giving a shit.
Still, the table behind me was packed with freshmen who hadn’t learned to keep their voices down yet.
“Dude, Trenton’s expulsion went through yesterday,” one of them whispered, loud enough for half the room. “My dad said his father tried to write another check and Hastings wouldn’t take it.”
“Brutal. Guess the Wright money finally ran out.”
A short, sharp breath left my nose. Not quite a laugh.
Across the room, Perez caught my eye and lifted his water glass. I raised mine back, just a few inches. That was enough.
Five minutes or so later, Elliot climbed onto the small stage at the front and grabbed the mic off the stand. Somebody at the back hooted. A few guys banged their forks on the table.
“Alright, shut up,” Elliot said, grinning. “Parents are here. Act like you’ve been in public before.”
A low ripple of laughter moved through the tables. I noticed Coach Corby, seated near the stage with the other staff, cross his arms and give Elliot a look that clearly meant‘keep it moving’.
Elliot cleared his throat. “Well, this season was a mess. Half of us wanted to kill each other at the start of the season. By midway through, we actually tried.” He paused, scanning the room. “But the guys who stuck it out, the ones who kept showing up when everything was falling apart... that’s why we’re standing here with a trophy.”
He didn’t glance at me and Karter right away. He let the words hang. Then his gaze shifted, just for a second, to Karter. Then to me.
I didn’t move. Didn’t nod.
“Anyway,” Elliot said, raising his glass. “To us. And to never having to run Coach’s bag skates again.”
The room erupted. Glasses clinked. Somebody shouted,“Hear, hear,”and another freshman knocked over a water pitcher. Coach Corby shook his head but didn’t bother hiding the smirk.
The meal wound down an hour or so later. Plates cleared, chairs scraped back, and donors started collecting their coats. I stepped into the hallway outside the banquet room, waiting for Karter to finish a conversation with one of the trainers. That’s when Elliot walked up and caught my arm.
