The final minute is just survival. Free throws, fouls, one last defensive possession where they try to drive middle, and I meet them there like a wall.
We win by four. The buzzer sounds, and my lungs pull in air like they’re relearning how. I shake hands and nod at the other big even though he doesn’t deserve it. I keep my face controlled for the cameras, because I’ve already learned that the League loves a composed rookie.
But inside? Inside I’m shaking. Relief is a physical thing. A flood. A loosening.
Coach catches me just before I reach the tunnel. He doesn’t smile—that’s not his style. Instead, he claps my shoulder once—hard enough to mean something. “Good minutes,” he says. That’s it. Two words. But my throat tightens anyway. Because two words from him could be the difference between a roster and a suitcase.
The locker room is a mess of sound and sweat and victory music that’s just a little too loud. Someone’s got a speaker going, bass rattling through metal lockers. Guys are laughing, shouting, throwing towels, acting like this was the championship instead of a Summer League finale.
But I know why it matters.Everythingmatters when you’re trying to stay.
I sit at my stall and peel off my shoes slowly, working through the postgame ritual like it’s a prayer. Tape off. Socks off. Ankles rolled. Ice pack waiting.
My wedding ring isn’t on my finger. It’s where it always is now—threaded onto a leather cord, tucked under my shirt, resting against my chest like a secret brand.
Some days I barely feel it. Tonight it burns.
A couple of lockers down, Marco—one of the few guys on the team who seems to have been born mid-laugh—drops onto the bench and nudges my knee with his. “Rook,” he says. “You got a pulse in there, or you still in robot mode?”
“I’m breathing,” I answer, because that’s what I do. Dry. Even. Controlled.
He grins like he approves. “You were solid out there.”
“Yeah,” someone else adds, voice rough. One of the vets. Not a star, but an actual League body, the kind who knows where every camera is without having to look. “Stayed vertical. Didn’t foul. Coach likes that.”
My stomach flips at the casual certainty in his tone.
Coach likes that.As if Coach liking something is a rare weather event.
Across the room, another guy, Kirk—newer, flashy, the type who thinks confidence is volume—snorts. “It’s Summer League. Relax. Everybody’s solid in July.”
No one laughs. A couple of guys smirk anyway, like they don’t want to be the one to challenge him. No one shuts him down. I watch that too. The politics aren’t subtle here. They’re just quiet.
Marco rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t push. He’s smart. He’s loud, but he’s not stupid. Instead, he claps his hands once. “All right, listen up. Team night. Coach wants ‘culture.’” He makesair quotes. “We hit the club. We pretend we like each other. We don’t get arrested.”
Groans ripple through the room. Someone throws a towel at his head. He catches it without looking and keeps going. “Rook, you’re coming.”
It’s not a question.
“I don’t—” I start.
Marco points at me. “Don’t be weird. It’s one night.”
I glance toward the showers, toward the exit, toward the quiet I want like water. But I know the rules: Don’t isolate yourself. Don’t be the rookie who thinks he’s above it. Don’t give them an excuse to label you difficult.
So I nod. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
“That’s my guy,” Marco says, satisfied.
We scatter to clean up, and the locker room thins. I shower fast, letting the hot water pound against my neck until some of the tension drains out. When I dress, I choose simple—dark jeans, a plain shirt, jacket. No logos. No statements. I tuck the cord back into place below my collarbone. The ring settles against my skin as a comforting reminder.
Outside, the night is warm and bright, LA pretending it isn’t already exhausted. We pile into rides. Music blasts. Someone’s already talking about after-parties like they’re inevitable. By the time we reach the club, there’s a line out the door, a velvet rope, and a bouncer who recognizes two of our guys instantly.
We don’t wait. We slide in like we belong.
Inside, everything is lights and bodies and bass so loud it feels like it rearranges your bones. The air smells like perfume, alcohol, and money. A hostess leads us to a table that’s already set up with bottles we didn’t order—team perks that it’s going to take a while for me to get my head around.
Someone toasts. Someone laughs too hard. Someone starts filming.
