Now that school’s over and he still hasn’t replied, I type, Not that you care. But something inside me won’t let me press Send. Something stupid and weak and still hopeful. You’d think that after all these years, I’d be all out of hope. Nope, not my dumb ass.

I ring Carli. She still hasn’t texted me back from earlier. I want to know how her doctor’s appointment went, but she doesn’t pick up. Damn, did the doctor tell her she couldn’t play?

Coach gave us a rare day off—no practice, no game, no team meeting, nothing. Said we needed rest before the playoffs. But it’s hard to rest when I don’t know what’s up with my girl.

When I get back to the crib, my father’s Tesla is parked in the driveway. His sneakers and messenger bag are haphazardly tossed by the front door. The house is toasty. And I can hear the TV playing in the living room. It feels like home. So much so that I want to drop my backpack and yell, “Dad, I’m home!” like people do in the movies. But my mouth acts like it doesn’t know how to move.

And my body isn’t doing any better. Instead of heading to the living room, I’m standing frozen in the foyer with my arms folded across my chest, feeling like . . . It’s hard to explain.

Man, do you know how many times I’ve hoped to come home to my father sitting in the living room? How many times I’ve psyched myself into thinking, Today is the day. The day he’ll be chillin’ on the sofa when I get home and I’ll join him, and we’ll chop it up and maybe even bust out a bag of potato chips. Now today really could be that day. It definitely feels like that day. But what if it isn’t?

Well, it wouldn’t be anything new. I don’t have anything to lose, I convince myself, and take off my coat and shoes and put them away in the mudroom. Then I take as much air as I can into my lungs and blow it out slow before walking down the hall and turning the corner.

I don’t see my father, but he must be around here somewhere. A clip from my freshman year is playing on our ridiculously large flat-screen. Not one from the video Carli’s dad made. Must be YouTube or something. And I’m right on time to see my younger self cock the ball back and posterize somebody.

“Damn, your boy is cold!” I say, out loud to myself. In case you haven’t noticed, your boy is prone to referring to himself in third person. Makes talking to himself more fun.