Page 59 of Ruthless Court

Piper notices.

“You really hate basketball.”

“It’s complicated.”

“That means yes.”

I press another strip of tape across the box.

My phone sits facedown on the desk.

Dad still hasn’t called.

Not since the night I told him I chose Stanford.

He stood in the kitchen holding the acceptance letter while I explained the financial aid, the scholarships, and the campus jobs I could apply for.

He heard none of it.

“What about the gym?” he asked.

Not Are you excited?

Not How did you manage this?

The gym.

His building. His program. His next collection of boys.

“You made that plan,” I told him. “I didn’t.”

“I made it for both of us.”

“You made it for yourself and put my name on the paperwork.”

His face changed.

Mom tried to step between us, but years of swallowed words had already broken loose.

I told him basketball wasn’t my life.

He told me I had wasted years following him around if I planned to throw away everything I learned.

I asked why learning the game only mattered when it could serve his dream.

He had no answer.

So he stopped speaking to me.

Some nights, the guilt digs in.

I picture him alone at the kitchen table, revising plans for a building we were supposed to open together. I wonder whether I should call first.

Then a ball begins pounding outside my window before sunrise, and I remember the gym lounge. The long waits. The boys he drove home while I took the bus.

He should have seen this coming.

Maybe I should have warned him sooner.