Page 173 of Ruthless Court

Dad: Good age for motion. Makes them learn to read instead of memorizing spots.

Me: That’s what I thought.

Dad: Zone or man?

Me: Man. They need footwork before anyone lets them hide inside a zone.

His typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Dad: Good.

One word.

It lands harder than praise from any professor.

Dad: How are they?

I send him the team picture.

Eli stands in the back with his glasses sliding down his nose. Tyler holds the ball like someone might steal it between photographs. The rest crowd around me, grinning.

Dad takes a while to answer.

Dad: They look happy.

Me: Most days.

Dad: You look happy too.

I enlarge the picture.

He’s right.

I’m wearing his old jersey with my whistle around my neck and one arm behind Eli’s shoulders. My smile is wide, free of the careful expression I wear in most photographs.

Me: I am.

Dad: I’d like to see that.

My chest tightens.

Me: The picture?

Dad: You coaching.

Another message follows.

Dad: Maybe I could fly out. Tour the campus. See where you’re living and what you’re studying.

I sit up straighter on the bed.

Dad: If you’d let me, I’d be honored to watch one of your games.

The tears come before I can stop them.

He spent my childhood asking me to wait while he coached his boys.

Now he wants to sit in the stands and watch me.