The Westbrook parking lot hadn't changed. Same cracks in the asphalt. Same faded lines. Same rusted bike rack by the front doors.
Leo sat in his car for five minutes before getting out. His hands were on the steering wheel. His heart was in his throat. He hadn't been back since graduation. The ghost gym had existed in his memory as a place of dust and echoes and banners that seemed too big for the walls.
Now he was here. And he was terrified.
Not of the gym. Of what he'd find inside.
Maya had texted him the schedule: “Winter showcase. Three matches. We play at 2 PM. Don't be late.”
He was an hour early.
He walked to the doors. They were unlocked. The hallway smelled the same—floor wax, old sweat, the faint ghost of popcorn. He followed the sound of squeaking shoes and bouncing balls.
