Page 441 of Ruthless Court

I can hear basketballs before I see the court.

Bounce.

Whistle.

Sneakers.

A man's voice cutting across the noise.

“Again. Strong hand through the finish.”

Coach Goodwin.

I stop outside the doors.

This suddenly feels much less intelligent than it did in my parents' kitchen.

Too late.

I open them.

The gym looks like it has existed since basketball involved peach baskets.

Blue bleachers.

Old championship banners.

Scuffed hardwood.

Maybe thirty boys spread across three baskets wearing camp shirts.

Parents sit high in the stands.

Coach Goodwin stands near half court with a whistle around his neck.

Hannah isn't here.

I knew she wouldn't be.

She's home destroying snowman cookies with her mother.

Good.

I can do this without her stopping me.

I unzip my coat.

Then another layer.

Then the Stanford hoodie underneath.

I peel off my beanie.

Gloves.

Scarf.

It takes long enough that a kid on the nearest court starts watching me.