Tessa's Training: Chapter Three
The Riley family garage had been built for two cars but housed zero. Instead, it was home to the entire spectrum of suburban athletic ambition: a netless basketball hoop in one corner, rusted out; five different coolers stacked like nesting dolls; gym bags stuffed with extra jerseys and socks that hadn’t seen detergent since Trump was president. The air had a distinct perfume—sweat, Armor All, and the faint, always-there hint of gasoline from the time their dad tried to fix the mower and nearly torched the house. That smell was permanent now, baked into every rag and jump rope.