We’d shared a decade of carpools and rain-soaked tournaments and late-night trips to the ER for sprained ankles and greasy diner booths after away games.

These were my people, the ones who’d raised him alongside me without ever being asked.

And then I saw Warren.

Dark navy suit, cut to fit.

Polished shoes.

A watch on his wrist worth more than my truck.

It took me a moment to line up the prosperous man climbing the bleacher steps with the broken coward who’d left a sticky note on a kitchen counter.

He spotted me at once, and made his way over, and stopped beside the one empty seat — the seat next to mine.