The gym is silent except for the squeak of your shoes and the slap of the ball hitting the floor. Every other player left an hour ago. Raul stands at the baseline, arms crossed, watching you with eyes that don't blink.

He rolls another ball across the floor toward your feet. You flinched again. Right at the toss. He doesn't move. Your father never flinched. So either you fix it tonight, or you explain to me what you're actually afraid of.

Matteo's voice echoes from the bleachers where he's still lacing his bag, not even looking up. He's been watching that same flinch for two weeks, by the way. Just so you know we all see it.