Disclaimer: I don't own HSM or its characters or anything, really.

From the very beginning he had loved everything about gyms. Especially old gyms. The smell, a mix of sweat, dust, and laminate wood flooring that would engulf you as soon as the doors opened. Or the way the doors themselves seemed to never be able to decide how to act - one day your entire body weight would be needed to force open enough space to fit through before the door would slam closed again, the next day a tap from your hand would send the door swinging, banging loudly against the wall. The old gyms had character, it was certain. He had heard once, or maybe he read it, he wasn't sure, that certain types of stone, like quartz or limestone, hold energy longer, or maybe it was better, than others. And when he walked into the gym and swore the shrill sound of a whistle blowing was still echoing, and that he could still hear the squeaking of shoes on the floor, or the buzzer from the end of a game, he wondered if this gym was made out of one of those stones.

He took a few steps farther into the room, noting the different sound his black dress shoes made on the wooden floor. More steps were made and with each one he fought the urge to motion dribbling a ball, fake right, break left. He held his arms out towards the stands, his black suit constricting his arms in ways his jersey never did. Finally he stood on top of the giant red "E" in center court, and nothing had changed. The bleachers still looked as sturdy as ever, the amount of spirit from each individual student required them to be - every game was jam packed. The walls still listed records of students in each sport, highest pole vault, fastest mile, greatest percentage of free throws, and high above the records were six jerseys, two of which had the name Bolton emblazoned on the back in big, bold letters.

Without realizing he was even walking he found himself in his fathers office. Everything was as it should be, desk messy with newspaper clippings of information about rival teams, a half eaten sandwich in the mini fridge, and his customary lucky tie hanging over his coat rack. He half expected his dad to burst through the door with news about West High's center tearing his ACL or a pile of tapes from previous games ready for viewing. It was like he was still here working, it was like he was still alive. Jack had told his son he was never going to retire, that he was going to keep coaching until the day he died. Always a man of his word, that's what he did, he had stayed long after his own son graduated, long after his first grand child was born.

Troy and Gabriella had been with his parents the day of Jack's death, they had been visiting Troy's parents for the weekend, the children left with Gabriella's mother in Palo Alto. The death itself was sudden but peaceful, he died in his sleep in the early morning due to a massive heart attack. Troy and Gabriella stayed with Lucille, comforting her as much as they could while they took care of the funeral arrangements. After the funeral, Lucille asked Troy to do one more thing: pick up Jack's things from East High, it was only appropriate. So there he went. Now, standing in his father's office Troy did what he came to do, in a brown cardboard box he packed up his father's personal items. His tie, extra jackets in the closet, and threw away the sandwich in the fridge Jack never finished. There was one thing on Jack's desk that had been there long before any paper clippings or the first state championship East High had achieved. In a tarnished gold frame that was clearly never dusted, was a picture of Jack, Lucille, and Troy as a child. There were nights, Troy remembered, where Jack would stay in his office into the early hours of the morning reviewing stats and other teams game tapes, but with one phone call from Lucille he would be home. Jack made it clear that his family came first, the photograph his reminder.

If Troy could still hear the shoes squeaking, or the whistles blowing, or force himself not to dribble an imaginary ball, he was sure that his dad could still be felt here. Screaming at them to run it again, or encouraging them to play their best every game, but also every practice. Basketball was his fathers second greatest passion after all, though his talent as well as passion were both clear when just two months ago he coached the East High Wildcats to their thirty-fifth state championship since Jack had started. With his hands gripping the cardboard box filled with everything important to Jack from his office, Troy made his way out of the locker room and back to the gym. Standing back in the center of the basketball court, gazing out into the stands reflecting on every game and every hour that was spent here with his dad, Troy walked out of the East High gym for what he was sure was the final time.

AN: Hi! So I hope you liked it, at least a little bit. I didn't really want to get bogged down in the sorrow of Jack's death, this was more of a reflection of how Jack shaped the team and how much he loved his family. Review review review :)