Dylan

∥practice∥

"Dylan Reyes."

Eleven-year-old Dylan looked up when he heard the teacher. Guilt washed down his back like a bucket of warm water. He fumbled under the desk and snapped his comic book shut.

Busted.

"Your dad is here to see you."

His eyes went to the door. Daddy leaned against the frame, not smiling, wearing jeans and a polo shirt and bad news.

Dylan's heart clenched. What went wrong? It was unlike his dad to show up at school in the middle of the day, completely unannounced, and he was so nervous he dropped the book to the ground as he stood up to leave. Batman watched him disapprovingly from one of the pages.

"Not paying attention in class, I see." His dad jabbed a finger lightly against the back of his skull after they left the classroom.

"Dad, why are you here?" His throat was tight and he cracked mid-sentence. Then again, his throat was often tight these days, and he seemed to be squeaking a lot. He hated how embarrassed he was because of it.

"I lost my job." Dylan liked how deep and resonant his dad always sounded, even when he was delivering unpleasant news. "I can't let your mom know yet, so I'm hiding out here."

"But why? You're the best pilot. Are you serious?"

His dad slapped him on the back with too much force and broke into a grin. "No, not really. I just want to see you. You're taking the rest of the day off so we can hang out."

Dylan laughed. It came out like a croak. "You scared me!"

"Aren't you trying out for the basketball team next week? Let's head to the park and I can help you practice a little."

"But you suck at basketball, dad, and that's putting it mildly. I can practice with Sean. No offense, but he's a lot better than you are."

His dad winked. "I can at least fetch the ball for you, right?"

For the rest of the afternoon, Dylan practiced shooting and his dad fed him the ball. The orange basketball bounced off the court and rolled through the grass surrounding it. It was sweltering hot. The air almost looked as if it parted as the ball cut through the humidity, leaving behind a trail like rowing a boat through a pond.

His dad went after the ball, and watching his retreating figure, Dylan's throat itched once again. This time it wasn't because of puberty.

It seemed like only a short while ago when his dad had to deliberately let him outrun him at every race, so that he was tricked into believing he was the fastest kid on earth, the invincible Dylanator. Now he had to slow down so his dad could keep up, but even so, the man was out of breath. He was hunched over with his palms rested above the knees.

Could his dad be getting old? The thought troubled him, but Dylan pushed it away and concentrated on getting the ball through the hoop. He was short for his age and even shorter for a basketball player, but that never stopped him from being great.

He could jump very high, he was fast, and he liked to think he was smart on court. His dad complimented him on how good he'd gotten, his tone wistful, like he missed something.

Dylan wiped away the sweat that trickled down his temple with the back of his hand. He snuck a silent glance at his dad, both out of gratitude and worry. Mostly gratitude. Daddy got a day off and he was here for him, just as always, and he wished he could do a fraction of what he did for him back in return.

He should have worried a little more. If he had known, he would have hurried up and played a few more times with his old man.

Dylan would have let him win every time.