Chapter 7 - The Price of Peace
Jordan spent Saturday night in Coach Reed’s guest room.
Coach Reed’s wife had gone to visit her sister in Birmingham, leaving the house quiet except for an old ceiling fan and the occasional bark of a neighbor’s dog.
Jordan could not sleep.
At 1:14 a.m., he opened Marcus’s message.
Come home tomorrow. We need to talk.
Jordan closed it.
At 1:37, another arrived.
I’m sorry.
Jordan stared at those two words longer than he wanted to admit.
Then his phone buzzed again.
This time it was Darius.
My mom and Marcus are fighting.
Jordan sat up.
About me?
Three dots appeared.
Not really.
Then:
About money.
Jordan sighed.
Don’t get involved.
Darius answered:
Hard when they’re yelling.
Jordan hesitated.
You somewhere safe?
Yeah. Bedroom.
Jordan typed:
Put headphones on. None of this is yours to fix.
Darius responded with a thumbs-up.
The words stayed with Jordan.
None of this is yours to fix.
Coach Reed said almost the same thing the next morning.
They sat at the kitchen table eating eggs and toast.
“You are not responsible for making your father feel better.”
Jordan looked down.
“I know.”
“No, you know the sentence. That’s different.”
Jordan pushed food around his plate.
Coach Reed drank coffee.
“You’ve spent years reading that man’s mood.”
Jordan looked up.
“How do you know?”
“Because I coached you.”
Jordan frowned.
“You think those things are separate?”
Reed pointed with his fork.
“You miss a shot, you look at me to see if I’m angry. You get an offer, you ask what it costs before you ask whether you want it. You win a championship, you search the stands before celebrating.”
Jordan looked away.
Coach Reed continued more gently.
“That doesn’t make your father evil.”
“I know.”
“It means you learned how to keep peace.”
Jordan laughed quietly.
“Peace for who?”
“That’s a better question.”
After breakfast, Reed drove Jordan to the gym.
The championship banners had already been updated.
Jordan stood beneath the newest one.
2026 STATE REGIONAL CHAMPIONS.
Coach Reed tossed him a ball.
“Shoot.”
Jordan caught it.
“That’s your therapy?”
“Cheaper than mine.”
Jordan smiled despite himself.
They worked silently for twenty minutes.
Then Coach Reed called him over.
“I contacted Atlanta.”
Jordan froze.
“You what?”
“I did not accept anything for you.”
Jordan relaxed slightly.
“I asked if the spot still existed.”
“And?”
“Until Monday.”
Jordan looked at the ball.
“How am I supposed to pay?”
“We have booster money for qualifying athletes.”
Jordan stared.
“You said the event cost—”
“It does.”
“You could’ve paid?”
“I could’ve requested assistance.”
“Did my dad know?”
Coach Reed’s face tightened.
“I told him.”
Jordan’s chest went cold.
“When?”
“Before he declined.”
Jordan bounced the ball once.
Hard.
“So money wasn’t even the reason.”
“It was part of what he said.”
“He knew there was help.”
“Yes.”
Jordan walked toward the baseline.
Coach Reed let him go.
After a minute Jordan turned.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because technically your parent handles travel approval while you’re a minor.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Coach Reed nodded.
“You’re right.”
He sighed.
“I thought your father had discussed it with you.”
Jordan laughed.
“Everybody thinks he talks to me.”
Coach Reed sat on the bleachers.
“Do you want Atlanta?”
Jordan stared at the court.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
It surprised him.
Coach Reed nodded.
“Then we figure out the paperwork.”
Jordan looked over.
“My dad has to sign?”
“You turn eighteen before the event.”
Jordan blinked.
The showcase was November tenth.
His birthday was November third.
Coach Reed smiled faintly.
“Sometimes calendars play defense too.”
For the first time in days, Jordan felt something like control.
At noon, Marcus arrived at Coach Reed’s house.
Jordan was waiting on the porch.
Marcus got out of the car slowly.
He had not shaved.
“Can we talk?”
Jordan nodded.
They sat.
Marcus clasped his hands.
“I need to tell you something before you hear it from somebody else.”
Jordan almost laughed.
“That list getting long?”
Marcus accepted the hit.
“Yes.”
Jordan waited.
“I applied for a home-equity line.”
Jordan’s expression hardened.
“More money?”
“Forty thousand.”
“For what?”
“Keisha’s studio has been struggling.”
Jordan stared at him.
Marcus raised one hand.
“I haven’t taken the money.”
“But you applied.”
“Yes.”
“And the house is already almost three hundred thousand in debt.”
“Yes.”
Jordan leaned back.
“What happens if her business fails?”
Marcus didn’t answer.
“The house?”
“We would manage.”
“We?”
Marcus closed his eyes.
Jordan stood.
“This is what Coach meant.”
Marcus frowned.
“What?”
Jordan looked down at him.
“I keep thinking if I say the right thing, you’ll finally understand.”
He shook his head.
“But you do understand.”
Marcus’s face changed.
“You just keep choosing what causes you the least conflict in the moment.”
“That’s not true.”
“You missed my game so Keisha wouldn’t be mad.”
Jordan counted on his fingers.
“You canceled Atlanta so you wouldn’t have to argue about money. You lied about the house so Mom wouldn’t explode. You applied for another loan because telling Keisha no was harder.”
Marcus stood.
“I’m trying to hold a family together.”
Jordan’s voice softened.
“No.”
He looked directly at him.
“You’re buying peace.”
Then he added:
“And everybody else keeps paying for it.”
Marcus had no answer.
Jordan walked inside.
His father remained on the porch.
Five minutes later Marcus’s phone rang.
It was Keisha.
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Marcus stared at her name.
For the first time, he let it ring.
