Win.
The relief that floods through me isn’t about the box score. It’s about surviving the first one. The first game after the truth went public in the ugliest way possible.
In the handshake line, one of their veterans grips my hand firmly. “Hell of a game,” he says quietly. “Respect.”
“Appreciate it.”
A younger player avoids eye contact entirely. I don’t take it personally. Growth is uneven.
As we head toward the tunnel, the crowd noise softens into celebration. The rainbow flags near the baseline are still visible as I disappear under the stands.
In the locker room, the mood is high. Music blares. Towels snap. Someone yells about postgame burgers.
Coach steps in and waits for the noise to dip slightly. “Good win,” he says simply. “You stayed disciplined. That’s what matters.”
His gaze lands on me. “Captain.”
That’s it. No speeches. No commentary about distractions.
Just basketball.
As I peel off my jersey and sit down, my phone vibrates again.
Rafe: Proud of you.
I stare at the screen for a second before responding. It’s been so long since he’s reached out after a game and shared those words with me.
Me: Come down?
His reply is immediate.
Rafe: Already walking.
I close my locker and stand.
The hallway outside the locker room smells like sweat, disinfectant, and something faintly metallic that always clings to arenas no matter how new the building is. I’m still riding the high of the win, the clean burn of effort and payoff, and for a few minutes, it’s almost easy to pretend the world outside the doors isn’t waiting to turn my life into a headline.
Rafe finds me before I make it all the way to the tunnel.
He’s standing near the security rope line, coat collar turned up, eyes tracking me with that quiet intensity that makes my heart stumble. When I get close enough, he doesn’t do anything big. He just reaches out and hooks his fingers around mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.”
His gaze flicks over my face, my shoulders, my hands, like he’s checking for fractures he can’t see. It’s subtle enough that no one else would notice, but I do, because I know him.
“You good?” he asks.
“I’m good,” I tell him. “We won.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m good,” I repeat, and this time I mean it in the fuller sense. The one that matters.
Something loosens behind his eyes, and he nods. He leans in, presses a quick kiss to my chin. It’s brief, controlled, the kind of affection that saysI’m herewithout turning it into a show.
The cameras won’t get this. Not in the hallway. Not under the stands. They’ll get the exit. The walk. The questions.
