Page 67 of Ruthless Court

That may be a problem.

I close my laptop before I write something that guarantees I never coach anywhere.

A text appears on my phone ten minutes later.

Hi, Hannah. I’m Melissa Chen, Tyler’s mom. Ignore the dads. Come to practice tomorrow and show us what you know.

I look at my bandaged arm.

Then at the pay rate.

I’ll be there.

* * *

The gym is twenty minutes from Stanford by car.

By bus, it takes an hour and fifteen minutes, one transfer, and a six-block walk.

I leave campus early with my whistle tucked into my backpack. Dad’s old prep-school jersey hangs over black leggings and a fitted long-sleeve shirt that protects the burn.

The navy-and-silver fabric reaches halfway down my thighs.

I almost left it in Chicago.

Now his school name stretches across my chest while I head toward the game I crossed the country to escape.

My hair is tied into a bubble braid. My contact lens behaves for once, so the thick glasses stay in my bag.

A polished woman in a camel colored rain coat waits outside the gym.

“Hannah?”

“Melissa?”

She shakes my hand carefully, avoiding the bandage.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for ignoring the dads.”

Her smile widens. “It’s a developed skill.”

We walk through a stone hallway toward the court.

“My son used to play for an elite program,” she says. “We left.”

“Why?”

“Parents. Politics. Adults turning middle-school basketball into a corporate merger.”

“I know the type.”

“These boys want to improve. We need someone who remembers they’re thirteen.”

The gym doors open.

Seven players stand near half court. Four fathers and two mothers wait along the sideline.