The game was over, the roar of the crowd still clinging to Coonie's ears like smoke. Victory had tasted sweet but Coonie Smith, Vorpal's mouthy sixth man, carried something else with him as he trudged down his street. His sneakers slapped the pavement, his hoodie half-zipped, his sarcastic thoughts already boiling before he even reached the porch.
The porch light flickered. Paint chipped. The doorframe creaked. He stood there for a second, staring, like he always did. A champion on the court. Just another kid with cracked shoes when he stepped off it.
He exhaled, pushed the door open, and called out in that sing-song sarcasm only he could get away with.
"I'm home."
From the kitchen came the voice that never failed to cut into him — warm, sharp, and laced with belief he didn't ask for.
