Page 98 of Caden & Theo
I cut another forkful of roll, stall with a sip of terrible coffee. “It’s not about the leg,” I say. “It’s the… theater of it.”
“Then control the script,” he counters. “Wear shorts. Walk in like yourself. No hiding. No explanations. You’ll be on your terms.”
I know he’s right. I also know the difference between a San Francisco gym full of clients who know me and a small-town high school where the bleachers are stacked with the past. No one here has seen me on a court since I was a different person with two natural legs and a future that felt like it couldn’t break.
He sees it on my face and softens. “Listen,” he says. “You love the game. You always will. Today doesn’t have to be a referendum on anything. It’s five-on-five in a small gym with a whistle and a scoreboard that might still buzz wrong on odd-numbered days. You’ll run, you’ll pass, you’ll shoot once or twice. You’ll wave at people who once painted your name on poster board. And then you’ll go heckle AJ for clapping off-beat.”
His usual joking tone doesn’t quite land, but I don’t push him on it.
“You say that like he’s not going to turn this place into a minor celebrity sighting,” I say.
“Please,” he says. “He’s pretending to be my date. We plan to be aggressively boring.” He glances down at his phone as something shifts in his gaze, then back up at me. “You in?”
I look down at my plate. The roll’s half gone. The frosting’s found a home on my fingers. The coffee is cooling into something fearless folks might use to strip paint. I take a breath and let it out.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m in.”
Cam doesn’t fist-pump. He just nods, satisfied, like he knew he could land this before he ordered. “Good. I’ll text the coordinator. You’re starting.”
I blink. “We’re just giving me the ball right away?”
“You were born with it,” he says. “The alumni will survive the insult.” His grin slants. “And let’s be honest, you like starting.”
I do. The nerves lace into something else—a steadier hum. The part of me that lives in the rhythm of the game finds the beat again. Warm up. Check the floor. Feel the bounce. Read the angles. No pressure. No stakes. Just the thing I love, in the place that made me love it.
We eat in companionable silence for a minute. Outside, Main Street collects itself—shopkeepers flipping signs, a mom jogging behind a double stroller, a pair of teens gawking intothe formalwear window at a wedding dress that looks like a chandelier.
Cam breaks the quiet with a fond groan. “I forgot how this town smells like grass and sugar at the same time,” he says.
“It’s the butter,” I say. “And the humidity.”
“And the ghosts of our bad decisions,” he adds.
“Oh, those,” I say. “They’re loud.”
He tips his chin at my leg. “Shorts today?”
I hesitate for half a heartbeat, then nod. “Shorts,” I say. “No use pretending. The kids should see it. The old crowd too.”
“You’ll handle it,” he says simply. “You always do.”
I wipe my hands, stand, and feel the familiar tug of the socket as I shift my weight. The first steps out of a chair are always the most honest ones: a quick inventory, a private negotiation. Today, everything answers yes.
We leave cash under the sugar shaker and step into the light.
“Meet you at the gym,” he says, slipping on sunglasses. “I’m going to collect AJ.”
“Say hi to your fake boyfriend.”
A frown dips his brows low for a beat before he replies, deadpan, “We prefer the term ‘temporary decoy.’”
I snort and wave him off as he slides into his car, windows down, some smooth R&B rolling out as he pulls away. I stand there a second longer, let the town line up around me: the brick, the awnings, the dog tied to the bike rack, tail thumping like it’s part of the percussion. I roll my shoulders back, turn toward the school, and start walking.
The “small”gym looks half the size I remember, which feels impossible. Light spills through the high windows in diagonalbars, dust floating like static. Bleachers line both sides. The scuffed varnish shines like a memory that got a fresh coat. Banners climb the walls, a few new ones tucked in among the old. The locker room still smells like damp cotton and detergent that gave up too soon.
A few alumni are already there, pulling on jerseys with the faded lettering spelling out FORMER on the back, talking about knees, kids, and early bedtime. Half the current varsity team has bounced in early, all long limbs and quick grins, their nervous energy snapping the air like rubber bands.
I nod hellos and a few how-you-beens, then duck into the locker room to change. The shorts feel familiar in my hands, but unfamiliar against the back of my thighs when I pull them on. I sit to tug my sock smooth on my intact side, then stand and look at myself in the mirror.
