Page 16 of Ruthless Court
Not from him.
From the corner of this lounge. From bleachers, folding chairs, and the back seats of buses packed with boys who thought deodorant was optional. I watched practice through glass while doing fractions, then essays, then college applications.
Dad trained hundreds of players.
I studied every one of them while he barely glanced at me.
“State school for four years,” he continues. “Then an MBA somewhere affordable. No reason to bury yourself in debt for a name.”
“I already submitted my applications.”
“I know. Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin. You’ll get into all three.”
He says it with confidence because my grades belong to him too. Everything I achieve becomes proof that his system works.
A basketball bangs against the glass.
Brandon jogs over, sweaty and smiling.
“Coach, can you watch one more?”
Dad checks the time.
Mom has dinner waiting. I have two finals next week and an English paper due by midnight.
He heads for the door.
“Five shots.”
Brandon grins. “Knew you’d stay.”
Neither of them looks back at me.
I open my laptop.
* * *
That night, Chicago is trying to kill everyone.
The temperature drops below zero before midnight. Ice clings to the inside corners of my bedroom window, and the wind punches the house hard enough to rattle the glass.
I’m under two blankets wearing sweatpants, fuzzy socks, and a hoodie while my laptop cooks my thighs.
My college applications are finished.
My final paper is submitted.
I should sleep.
Instead, I watch a girl in a tiny pink dress skateboard beneath a row of palm trees.
The TikTok caption reads:
POV: Stanford feels like Malibu Barbie and Harvard had a baby.
I watch it again.
Sunshine. Red roofs. Bikes. Students stretched across green lawns in February without coats, gloves, or the gray skin tone Chicago gives everyone by Christmas.
