“Are you kidding? I love to shoot hoops.” And it’s true—a few shots at the hoop beats monitoring movement notifications from the basement.
The floodlight casts a golden glow across the carport. Cold air bites my face. Alicia’s Rivian is parked at the far end, practically touching the iron gate, leaving the court clear.
Stella’s already bouncing the ball by the time I step outside.
She’s quick—two dribbles, a pivot, a shot that clangs off the rim.
“Rusty,” she says with a grin. “I haven’t played much lately. Dad says I should stick with theater, but basketball’s more fun.”
I catch the rebound and pass it back. “You play with him often?”
“Sometimes.” She shrugs, dribbles once. “He’s kind of overprotective. Says Mom being on the news makes her a target.” She glances up, searching my face. “Now with you here? He’s gonna freak out.”
Her words flow freely as she dribbles, but if I’m reading her right, she’s testing the waters. I keep my reply neutral. “Your dad just wants to make sure you’re both safe. That’s what dads do.”
“Yeah. He’s different than Mom.” She takes a shot, sinks it clean.
“Nice,” I say, catching the ball and passing it to her.
“Mom’s great, but she’s intense. Everything’s gotta be perfect—grades, the play, everything. She wants me to be ‘the best version of myself.’” Stella makes air quotes with one hand while dribbling with the other. “Sometimes it just feels like a lot.”
She shoots. Another swish. I pass it back, watching her reset for another shot. “Sounds like she believes in you.”
“She does.” Stella’s voice softens. “It’s just…a lot.”
She shoots again. The ball arcs high, smooth, perfect form. It drops through the net with a whoosh.
“Sweet,” I say.
She grins. “Guess I still got it.”
She’s just a kid—laughing, fearless, free—griping about her parents.
“What’s your favorite team?”
“Dad likes the Knicks.” She shrugs. “I don’t really watch basketball.”
“Like your mom.”
“Yeah.” She grins. “Guess I got that from her.”
“Yet you play?”
“Yeah.” Her ponytail swings as she circles, getting in line for another shot. “You gonna play, or you gonna just stand there?”
“Smack talk, huh. Let’s go.”
We keep shooting until the motion of the ball and the sound of her laughter fill the carport, likely carrying over into the neighbors’ spaces. Across the street, lights glow warm through the window. Normal life. Family life.
For the first time since joining KOAN—maybe since enlisting—I let myself wonder what that would be like. Then Stella misses a shot, groans dramatically, and the moment passes.
“First to ten?” she asks.
“Let’s go.”
Chapter
Five