When Jordan says us, she means me. Shannon plays my position. I’m the one who has to guard her. And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do that when I don’t even want to play.

“I need to say something to Rex,” I say, trying to change the subject. “But I don’t know what.”

“I’m sorry sounds like it will do just fine.”

“But what about the fact that all he wanted to do was talk about basketball even after I told him about my parents?” I don’t know why I just bothered to ask Jordan that. It’s all she ever wants to talk about, too.

“Well, you didn’t even tell him the real deal. It’s not like he knows you and Cole have to decide which parent to live with. He’s not a mind reader, Carli. Plus, it is a big deal that you’ll be back for the playoffs. No way we could handle Shannon without you.”

“Couldn’t handle her with me. So, what’s the difference?”

“Girl, stop. You are Carli Alexander and you are about to shut Shannon down,” she says, and reaches her spoon for my bowl. I swear Jordan’s always trying to steal somebody’s food.

I move my bowl over and shield it with my hand. “Eww, I don’t want all that nastiness mixed up with all this goodness.”

She sucks her spoon clean and tries again.

Disgusting, but I let her. Hoping that she’ll remember this. Hoping that this will somehow count when I have to tell her the truth about basketball.

REX

I’m running down the court, trying to get back on D, when I spot them. Light-blue scrubs walking up the stands. A tall, slim man with dark skin and a low-cut fade. Halfway up, the man in scrubs sits down, and I see his face. My father. For the first time ever, my father is at my game.

The dude I’m supposed to be guarding shoots a three. Swish.

Shit.

“Take that, Mr. Rex Carrington,” dude says, shooting hand still hanging in the air. He’s wearing yellow wristbands on both wrists to match his uniform.

“Man, get on somewhere. That’s your first three the whole game,” I reply, and give him a light bump while running back up the court.

The ref blows her whistle and a jolt of fear rushes through my body. Not another technical! But she holds up her hand to signal a time-out.

“Hustle up! Hustle up!” Coach Bell shouts, waving his right arm in a big circle. As I approach the huddle, he gives me a water bottle and asks, “You all right? You didn’t even have a hand in his face.”