Chapter 1 - Finn
I stand just outside the three-point line. Six seconds left. Score: 88–86, them. The crowd roars, but I’m locked in. Silence. Focus.
A glance left—Dad’s in the stands. I can’t hear him, but I know what he wants. I look back at the basket.
Five… bend.
Four… lift.
Three… aim.
Two… release.
One… buzzer.
The ball arcs. Slow-motion.
Swoosh.
Game-winner.
The gym explodes. My teammates storm me while the crowd chants my name. I catch Dad in the chaos. He stays seated, clapping slowly, gaze steady.
No words. Just a look. Not joy—something else.
My dad, Steve Easton. Once the name around here. High school star, scouts in the stands, scholarship waiting—until his knee gave out senior year. His NBA dreams over.
He never talks about it. Not directly. But you can feel the shadow.
Back home, he’s a legend. He runs camps, cheers loud, gives back. To everyone else, he’s the perfect sports dad.
But with me—it’s different.
My older brothers were solid players. But I have something more. He sees it. And it’s not just pride—it’s redemption.
So he pushes. Quietly, relentlessly. Every missed shot carries history.
He wants this. For me. For him.
But he doesn’t see what it costs.
We drive home in silence.
The truck smells of pine and worn leather. My jersey sticks to my back.
Dad taps the steering wheel, lost in thought. No excitement. Just analysis.
“You squared your shoulders late,” he says finally. “Ball came off clean. But next time—plant earlier.”
I nod. No celebration. Just correction. That’s how it always is. He doesn’t need volume to drown joy. Praise is rationed like it’s risky.
We pull in to the driveway. The porch light flickers. I grab my bag from the floor but hesitate.
“Did I make you proud tonight?” I ask, voice low.
He pauses. “Proud? Of course.”
But it lands hollow. Almost scripted.
I nod, more to myself. “Good night.” I dont get a response.
Inside, it’s quiet. Mum asleep and my brothers are away at college.
I sit on the bed, my phone constantly buzzing. Notifications from my teammates, videos, cheers. I should feel proud. Instead, I stare at the floor.
A text from Jock then pings through. Jock’s my best mate since pre-school. We’ve played on the same teams ever since. He’s a pain in the arse, but he’s good to me. He’s always there when I’ve had run ins with dad, inviting me round his to get me away from it all.
📱Jock: “Mate, insane game! I really think we’ll be state champs this year. Semi-finals incoming! Be at mine in 20—it’s celebration time. I’ve invited a few other people.”
I sigh. Jock never means “a few.”
I quickly shower, change my clothes and head out. I don’t tell Mum and Dad.
They won’t notice anyway.
