Marcus Vance's second unannounced appearance at Founders' Arena came in early January, this time not during practice but at the apartment itself, a knock at the door on a Saturday morning that neither of them expected and that Beckett recognized, the moment he opened it, as carrying an entirely different weight than the confrontation in the empty stands two months earlier.
"Dad." Beckett's surprise was evident, mixed with a wariness earned through years of careful navigation. "What are you doing here?"
"May I come in?" Marcus's voice lacked its usual cool authority, replaced by something almost hesitant, an uncertainty Beckett had rarely witnessed in his father in twenty-two years.
Rae, standing in the kitchen doorway, watched the exchange with careful attention, unsure whether to excus
