SARAH
She stood just outside the gym, her hand resting on the doorframe, watching her son with quiet awe. There was a fire in Ryan's eyes she hadn't seen in months. Not since before the accident. Not even before the coma.
There was pain too—he still winced sometimes when he wheeled himself too quickly—but it was buried beneath something stronger. Purpose.
She watched him toss the ball to the freshman again and again, nodding sharply, calling out corrections like a seasoned coach.
It reminded her of when he was younger, lining up his stuffed animals in the living room pretending he was in charge of a team. She had never imagined that version of him would return, but here he was.
Her chest ached with pride.
And love.
And a quiet kind of grief for everything he'd lost—but also hope, because maybe… maybe he was finding something new.
ANNA
She sat on the bleachers, hugging her knees, eyes locked on Ryan.
He didn't look at her once.
And maybe that was what made it hurt the most.
But as she watched him train Tyler, she could see how much he still cared. Not about her—not directly—but about the game, about the team, about building something again.
She wiped at her eyes when no one was looking.
Ryan was different now. Stronger in some ways. More distant in others. But there was a warmth in the way he spoke to Tyler—a patience she'd never seen in him before. It made her wonder if that warmth had always been inside him, waiting for the right moment to come out.
She missed him.
But in this moment, she was just proud to know him.
BEN
"Dude's killing it."
Ben leaned against the wall beside the gym door, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he watched Ryan move around the court.
There was something surreal about it—seeing his best friend like this. Not just participating. Leading.
For a while, Ben had been scared Ryan would never come back to them. Not really. The coma, the memory loss, the way he shut everyone out. It all felt permanent.
But seeing him now?
He wasn't the same Ryan. He was better.
"Yo," Ben muttered under his breath, watching Tyler go through a tight dribble drill. "Coach Whitmore's got skills."
He smiled, then said to himself, "Yeah. We're back."
SAVANNAH
Savannah had her phone out, but she wasn't filming. She wasn't even texting. She was holding it like a security blanket, watching from the top row of the bleachers.
She didn't say a word. She didn't need to.
She just watched Ryan work.
Watched how he noticed everything—every missed step, every late pass. Watched how he believed in Tyler, even when the kid messed up. She remembered when Ryan used to believe in nothing—not even himself.
She saw something shift inside him now.
Maybe he wasn't going to play again.
But that didn't mean he was off the court.
Savannah smiled, slipped her phone into her hoodie pocket, and whispered, "You're still in the game, Ry. Just in a different way."
RICHARD
Richard stood farther back, near the trophy case by the entrance. He hadn't meant to come in. He had driven by the school and noticed the gym lights were on. Something pulled him in.
Now, as he watched his son train someone younger, smaller, and hungrier, something in him cracked.
He remembered yelling at a younger Ryan through fence rails during a middle school game. Remembered missing the last championship game he was supposed to see. Remembered never being there when Ryan needed him most.
But this—this made him believe that maybe it wasn't too late.
Ryan hadn't said much to him since waking up.
But he hadn't pushed him away, either.
And maybe that was something.
Richard exhaled slowly, hands in his pockets, and watched in silence as his son shaped another kid's future.
COACH DANIELS
From his office window overlooking the court, Coach Daniels leaned forward in his chair, arms resting on the ledge.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't step in.
He just watched.
Ryan was doing everything right—breaking down fundamentals, offering feedback without overwhelming, challenging without humiliating. He was tough, but fair. Clear. Focused.
"Natural," Daniels whispered to himself.
Not just as a player. As a leader.
He'd always seen the potential in Ryan. But it had taken a tragedy for Ryan to see it in himself.
The gym echoed with the sound of sneakers squeaking and the ball bouncing rhythmically.
Coach Daniels smiled.
Maybe Ryan would never wear the Wolves jersey again. Maybe he wouldn't be on the scoreboard.
But what he was doing here mattered more.
He wasn't just training a player.
He was shaping a legacy.