Impossible not to notice.
On their third date he told her about the college injury.
Ankle rolled underneath another player.
Surgery.
Missed semester.
Coach moved on.
Scholarship reduced.
Grades dropped.
He returned home feeling like the most important version of himself had ended at nineteen.
Nia heard tragedy.
Devin heard unfinished business.
Neither understood that difference until years later.
When Cameron was born, Devin placed a miniature basketball in his crib for a photograph.
Harmless.
Cute.
Then youth league at five.
Travel ball at nine.
Private lessons at ten.
By eleven, Devin discussed “pathways.”
Nia rolled her eyes.
Cameron loved basketball.
That made the line difficult to see.
Where did support stop?
Where did a father’s abandoned dream begin using his child as transportation?
The exam-room door opened.
The clinician returned with discharge instructions.
No basketball until specialist evaluation.
Cameron’s face fell.
Nia did not say:
I told you.
She wanted to.
She hated that.
Outside, Devin waited.
“What did they say?”
Cameron answered:
“No playing.”
“For how long?”
“Until sports medicine.”
Devin looked toward Nia.
“When can we get him in?”
“Tuesday.”
“You called already?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
For one moment they were parents again.
Then Devin said:
“We'll see what the specialist says.”
Nia stared.
“What does that mean?”
“It means urgent care isn't sports medicine.”
“No.”
“Nia.”
“You are already searching for a different answer.”
“I said we'll see.”
“Cameron heard you.”
Devin looked toward their son.
Cameron looked down.
Devin exhaled.
“Fine.”
He crouched.
“You follow what the doctor says.”
Cameron nodded.
“No arguments.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nia watched.
She could not decide whether to appreciate the correction or resent that it required an audience.
Probably both.
At home, Cameron went straight to his room.
Nia sat at the kitchen table alone.
The house was quiet.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Hi, this is Tameka, Eli’s mom. Coach gave me your number. Eli’s wrist is sprained but no break. I understand there was some kind of situation before Marcus got there. We need to talk, but not tonight. Both kids need rest.
Nia stared.
No accusation.
That made it worse.
She typed:
I agree. I owe Eli and you an apology. Whenever you're ready.
She deleted “I’m so sorry” three times because it felt too small and too large simultaneously.
Tameka responded ten minutes later.
Tomorrow afternoon.
Nia barely slept.
Sunday at three, she drove to a small brick house in East Point.
Tameka opened the door wearing jeans and a purple sweatshirt. She was thirty-eight, shorter than Nia, with long locs pulled into a knot. She worked as an elementary-school attendance clerk during the week and picked up weekend shifts managing events at a recreation center.
Eli sat at the dining table doing homework one-handed.
His wrist was wrapped.
Nia saw it and felt ashamed all over again.
Tameka did not offer coffee.
Fair.
Nia sat.
Eli remained.
That surprised her.
Tameka said:
“He wanted to hear what you had to say.”