Page 172 of Ruthless Court

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.