The letter arrived on a Monday, three days before the state tournament.
Leo found it taped to the door of the Westbrook gym, the paper yellowed and creased, the handwriting shaky but familiar. He pulled it down and read it in the empty hallway, his breath fogging in the cold morning air.
Leo,
I've been watching your team. They're good. They're you. Come see me before the tournament. I won't be here much longer.
– Marcus Cole
Leo's hands trembled. Marcus Cole. The man who'd taught him to fly. The man who'd been there for every championship, every injury, every comeback. Leo hadn't seen him in two years—not since the night before the national championship, when Marcus had shown up at the Crestmont gym and run drills with him until 2 AM.
He'd heard the rumors. Marcus was sick. Marcus ha
