"Hey, what are you watching?" Peter asked, stepping into the study.
Dranred didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the screen—on the Falcons' latest game.
Peter frowned. "That's your opponent this weekend, right? Why bother? Everyone knows your team's gonna win. You've got the Shooting Star himself."
"You can't underestimate them," Dranred said quietly, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Peter snorted. "I'm just being realistic. Look at them—no coordination, sloppy defense. And the stats don't lie. They've never beaten you."
Dranred said nothing. He knew Peter was right, but something about that team made him uneasy—maybe because of James. He still remembered how good James had been before the injury, how easily he could read the court. If life hadn't broken him, he would've been one of us.
"Oh, by the way," Peter added, scrolling through his phone, "they've got a new player. You remember Drake Simon?"
Dranred turned to him. "Drake Simon—from the Wolves?"
"Exactly. Traded to the Falcons, apparently. But even with him, I doubt they'll stand a chance."
Dranred's jaw tightened. He knew that name too well. Ever since he'd gone pro, Drake had been his shadow and rival—every final game, every close call. Beating him was never easy. And now, he was back.
Without a word, Dranred stood.
"Where are you going?" Peter asked.
"Practice."
"Practice? It's your day off! You've got a game tomorrow. You should be resting—your hand just recovered."
But Dranred was already walking toward the back door. Peter followed him out into the cool evening air. Behind the house stretched a small baseball field beside the basketball court—a reminder of who Dranred had been before fame.
He changed into his old uniform, picked up a mitt and a ball, and stepped onto the mound. For a long moment, he just stood there, turning the ball slowly in his hand. Peter watched silently from the fence. He'd seen this before—Dranred's strange ritual. Whenever something weighed on his mind, he came here. It was as if his thoughts only made sense from that dusty circle.
Then came the pitch.
The ball cut through the air and slammed into the net with a sharp thud. Then another. And another.
"Enough!" Peter shouted, rushing forward to grab his arm. "Do you want another injury before tomorrow's game? You're the team's anchor, Red!"
"I'm just thinking," Dranred muttered, lowering the ball.
Peter sighed in exasperation. "You and your way of thinking—you'll drive me insane."
Dranred was quiet for a beat, eyes still on the net. Then, almost absently, he said, "Can you find me a good eye specialist?"
Peter blinked. "An eye specialist? Why? Is something wrong with your vision?"
"I'm fine," Dranred said, already walking back to the house. "It's for a friend."
Peter stood there watching him go, frowning.
He didn't know who the friend was.
But judging by the look in Dranred's eyes, whoever it was—that person still mattered.
Morning sunlight streamed through the wide glass windows of the therapy hall, falling across the tiled floor in long gold bars. The smell of disinfectant lingered, softened by the faint sweetness of baby powder and the tang of lemon from freshly mopped floors.
Rosette sat at the piano bench, her hands hovering over the keys. She didn't need sight to play; the instrument had long ago become an extension of her heartbeat. The children were already gathering—small feet shuffling, whispers bouncing off the walls.
"Good morning, Miss Rosette!" a boy called.
"Good morning, Ben," she answered, smiling toward the voice. "Did you practice your scales?"
He laughed sheepishly. "A little."
"That means not at all," another voice teased.
Rosette laughed with them, the sound light and warm. "Then we'll practice together. Ready?"
She began to play, soft and patient, her fingers gliding across the keys like water flowing downstream. One by one, the children joined in, their hesitant voices finding courage in her calm rhythm. For a few moments, the hall was full of music instead of medicine, laughter instead of pain.
When the song ended, the applause was small and sincere. The children went back to their instruments, and Rosette turned her face toward the door.
She could feel him. She didn't need anyone to tell her he was there.
"Good morning, Red," she said quietly.
There was a pause before he answered. "You always know."
A faint smile touched her lips, "I remember the sound of your breathing."
The children turned, whispering excitedly. "Coach Masterson! It's him!"
Dranred chuckled softly. "You're more famous than me here, Rosie."
"You think so?"
"I know so." He stepped closer, careful not to break the spell of calm around her. "I brought something. For your class."
He set a large bag on the table—new guitars, bright and glossy, strings still shining in their plastic wrap.
The children gasped, rushing forward. "Are these for us?"
Dranred nodded. "Only if you promise to play them louder than any crowd I've ever heard."
Rosette reached out, fingertips brushing the nearest guitar. "They're beautiful."
"I wanted to help," Dranred said. "You do more for these kids than I ever could."
Rosette's smile softened. "You'd be surprised what a song can heal."
"I'm counting on it," he said quietly.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The noise of the children faded into a hum around them. Rosette turned her face toward him. "You came early today."
"I couldn't sleep," he admitted.
"Neither could I," she said. "But for different reasons, I think."
He wanted to ask what hers were, but decided not to. Her peace felt sacred, and he didn't want to shatter it.
When the class ended, the children filed out, each clutching their new guitar. Rosette remained seated, hands folded in her lap.
"You stayed," she said.
"I didn't want to leave without saying thank you," Dranred replied.
"For what?"
"For reminding me that some things can still be good."
Her expression softened, and for a heartbeat, it felt like forgiveness might live in the space between them.