The sun was a dying orange ember, bleeding into the purple haze of twilight. The park bench was cold, but Kian didn't feel it. He was suspended in the new, fragile quiet, flanked by his two friends.
He let their words settle over him. Diametrically opposed. Secret weapon. You are not him.
It was a new set of data. A new, external analysis that his own, shame-filled, internal monologue had been incapable of processing. He had been so focused on the hypocrisy of his actions, he had completely missed the intent behind them.
His father had abandoned his family for the game.
Kian was using the game to build a new one.
It wasn't a perfect, clean, logical proof, but it was... something. It was a foothold. It was a counter-argument.
"So," Silas said, finally breaking the long silence and rubbing his hands together. "My existential crisis quota is full for the day. And I am starving. My mom probably thinks I've been kidnapped, which means she's stress-baking. Her stress-baked brownies are, like, next-level. Let's go."
"I... I can't go to your house," Kian said, his voice rough. He couldn't face a mom. Not right now.
"Fine," Silas said, unflappable, his good mood returning. "Then... burgers. The cheap, greasy, probably-illegal kind. My treat. You," he pointed at Ren, "are coming because you need to ingest non-liquid calories. And you," he pointed at Kian, "are coming because if we leave you here, you'll just... I don't know... photosynthesize... or whatever it is you do. You're creepy when you're emo. Let's go."
Kian looked at him. At his stupid, loud, loyal friend. He just... nodded.
"The Burger Barr" was the anti-"Grind." It was a tiny, '50s-style joint with cracked vinyl booths, a humming neon sign, and a thick, glorious smell of fried onions and cheap meat. It was perfect.
They slid into a corner booth, Silas and Ren on one side, Kian alone on the other.
"Okay," Silas said, before Kian could even pick up a menu. "Here's the problem. Your grandfather. He's... he's operating on bad data."
"He's... not wrong," Kian mumbled, his gaze fixed on the salt shaker. "I... I did... watch Leo's game. I... I am... coaching those kids. I... I am... a hypocrite."
"No!" Silas said, slapping the table, making the salt shaker jump. "You're not! You're... you're compartmentalizing. It's... it's smart! Look," he leaned in, his voice dropping. "You're... you're Kian Vance. You're not... Kian... what's-his-name. He... he was the 'Coach.' He... was the jerk. You... you're just... Kian. The... the artist guy... who just... happens... to also... be... a... a basketball... wizard? A... a sports... witch?"
"The... the 'sports witch' hypothesis... is untestable," Ren said, not looking up from his menu. "But... the logic... holds. Your identity... is not... his identity. The... the correlation... of talent... does not... imply... causation... of character. Your... your grandfather... is... conflating... the two. It's a... a logical fallacy."
Kian just... listened. He let their defense of him, their logic, wash over him. It was... comforting.
"You're also... not his son," Silas added, his voice serious. "I mean... you are. Biologically. But... not really. You're Alicia's kid. You... you look... like her. You... you think... like her. You're... you're both... terrifyingly smart... and... and super stubborn."
Kian looked up, his eyes sharp. "You... you think I'm... like Mom?"
"Dude? Yes!" Silas said. "She... she works... at that hospital... not for... money. But... because she has to. Because... she... she sees... something broken... and she... she has to fix it. She's... she's obsessive." He pointed a fry at Kian. "Sound... familiar?"
Kian's... his mind... stalled.
He... he always... saw his father... in his compulsion. He never... once... thought... to look... at his mother. The... the healer. The... the nurse. The... the one who stayed.
"You... you see... Milo's shot," Silas said, his voice soft. "It's... broken. You... you have to fix it. You... you see... Leo's defense... it's flawed. You... you have to fix it. You're... you're not... your dad, Kian. You're... you're your mom. But... but your... medicine... is... basketball."
Kian... he had no response. The data... was overwhelming. It was... re-contextualizing... his entire life.
His phone buzzed on the table. A text.
LEO:Are you alive? Mom's a wreck.
Kian stared at the words. The guilt... it was still there. But... it wasn't shame. It was... regret.
He showed the text to his friends.
"Ugh," Silas said. "The other team."
"I... I have to go back," Kian said, his voice heavy.
"Yeah. You do," Ren said, his voice practical. "But... you're not... going back... broken. You... you're going back... re-calibrated."
"Just... just tell them," Silas said. "Just... be... Coach Kian. Who cares? It's... it's cool!"
"No," Kian said, his voice firm. The one thing he was sure of. "That's... mine. The quarry... is mine. They... they don't... get... that. It's... it's not... for them."
"Okay," Silas said, nodding, understanding. "Okay. It's... it's your... secret clubhouse. Got it. So... what do... you tell them?"
Kian stood up. He threw a twenty on the table. "The truth. Just... not all of it."
He walked. He didn't run. The ten-mile journey from the park to the burger joint and now, finally, back to the Vance estate, had given him time. His legs were sore, his mind was clear, and he was no longer a fugitive. He was just... late.
He walked up the long, white-gravel driveway. The house was lit up, a beacon in the dark. He felt... cold. But calm.
He used his key. He opened the massive front door.
He stepped into the marble hallway. It was 8:30 PM. It was dead silent.
He... he heard... a book page... turn.
They were in the library. His room. Arthur's room.
He walked to the doorway. He didn't skulk. He just... walked.
He stood in the grand, carved-wood archway.
They were all there. It was a tableau of his failure.
Alicia was on the sofa, her knees tucked under her, a magazine open on her lap, but she wasn't reading. Her eyes were red. She saw him, and her hand flew to her chest, a sharp, audible gasp.
Leo was in a nearby armchair, a thick textbook open, but he was just... staring... at a single, unread page. His face was a mask of confusion, betrayal, and a deep, profound hurt. He looked up, his eyes wide.
And Arthur... Arthur was in his high-backed leather chair by the fire. He was the only one who seemed calm. He just... looked... at Kian, his blue eyes... unreadable. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just... watching. Assessing.
"Kian," Alicia breathed, her voice trembling. She started to get up. "Oh, Kian... we... we were so worried... where... where were you? Your phone..."
"I'm... I'm back," Kian said, his voice low, but steady. It didn't crack.
He was still standing in the doorway. He knew... he couldn't... stay... in this room. He couldn't... have... this...conversation. Not now. Not... with them.
But... he couldn't... run... either.
"Mom... I... I'm sorry... I worried you," he said. The words were... clean. Honest.
Alicia... stopped. He... he had apologized.
"I... I was with... Silas and Ren," he said. A simple, verifiable fact. He wasn't hiding. "I... I lost track... of time. We... we ate. I... I'm back."
It wasn't... an apology... for running. It wasn't... an explanation. It was... a statement of fact. He... he had... a life. An anchor. Outside... of this house.
It changed... the dynamic. He wasn't a... a broken child... who had lashed out. He was... a young man... who had left... and sought counsel.
Arthur Vance... his eyes... narrowed. He... he understood. He... he knew... Kian... had been re-centered. His... his bomb... hadn't worked. It... it had changed... the battlefield... but... it hadn't... won... the war.
Leo... Leo just... looked... at Kian. He was... so confused. He... he opened... his mouth. He wanted... to ask. 'The... the kids... Kian? The... the watching...?'
Kian... met... his brother's... gaze.
And... he shook his head. Once. A... a tiny, imperceptible... movement.
Not now. I can't. Don't.
Leo... saw... it. He... he understood... the plea. He... he closed... his mouth.
He... he looked down... at his... book.
He... he had... his own... secrets. He... he had... Chloe. He... he had... his team. Kian... Kian had... his.
Kian looked at his grandfather. The disappointment... was still there. The... the judgment. It... it hadn't... gone away.
Kian... Kian accepted... it. He... he couldn't... fix... that. Not... tonight.
He... he just... turned.
"I... I have homework," he said.
He walked up the grand staircase. He didn't run. He walked. Each step... deliberate.
He got to his room. He went inside.
He closed the door.
He didn't lock it.
He sat at his desk. He looked at the drawing of Milo's betrayed face. He... he had to... fix that.
He... he looked... at the drawing... of Milo's follow-through. He... he had to... fix that, too.
He took a new... clean... sheet... of paper.
He... he wasn't... his mother. He... he wasn't... his father.
He... he was... Kian Vance.
He... he started... to draw. He... he wasn't... drawing... art.
He... he was designing... plays.
He was... designing... a two-man game... for Milo and Ana. A... a pick-and-roll... for a cracked asphalt court.
He... he was working. He... he had... a team.