I peel my own practice jersey over my head and wipe my face with it, feeling the chill of sweat on my skin as the locker room air hits. “It wakes me up.”
“It wakes your ancestors up,” DeShawn mutters. “Somewhere in the spirit realm they’re screaming.”
I laugh, but it comes out tired. My body is heavy with the kind of exhaustion that’s almost comforting because it makes thinking harder. For a few hours, there’s only muscle memory and breath and the simple math of effort. It’s not that I don’t think during practice. It’s that the thinking has a shape. It has boundaries. It doesn’t spill into everything else.
That’s part of why I’ve been good lately. Better than good. Focused to the point of obsession.
Coach likes it. He’s been in a better mood for a full week, which feels like a sign of the apocalypse. I’ve been closing more quarters. I’ve been getting consistent minutes. I’ve even started a couple of games when rotations shift because of injuries or matchups. The work is paying off in the one way work ever pays off in the League—opportunity. Trust.
My body can handle pain. I’ve always known that. I can play through bruises and sore joints and the ache that sits deep in your bones after a long road trip. I can handle being tired.
What I struggle with is the quiet. The quiet is where my thoughts find me again, and lately, the quiet has been getting bigger.
“Yo,” Jonah says as he opens his locker. “You coming tonight?”
I pause, towel in hand, and glance up. “Tonight?”
DeShawn leans forward immediately, excited. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t know. Andre’s wife is cooking. She makes this—what’s it called—pot roast? Beef roast? Some Midwest magic? It’s like a warm blanket but edible.”
Andre finally looks up, unimpressed. “It’s just food.”
“It’s not just food,” DeShawn argues. “It’s a spiritual experience. You know the new guy needs carbs. He’s been living on sadness and protein shakes.”
Jonah’s eyes flick to mine, quick and sharp, like he’s checking what lands. It’s subtle, but I catch it.
I’ve made an effort since the trade. Not because I’m naturally social, because I’m not. In LA, it was easier to retreat into the bubble of what I knew. My routines. My space. My controlled, quiet life that only ever really softened when Rafe was there.
In Minnesota, if I don’t say yes sometimes, the silence will swallow me whole.
“I… can’t,” I say slowly, feeling the words scrape. “Not tonight.”
DeShawn’s face collapses into exaggerated heartbreak. “Why would you hurt us like this?”
Andre’s gaze holds mine for a beat longer than necessary. “You got something going on?”
The question is simple. The answer isn’t.
I keep my expression neutral and roll my shoulders like it’s just scheduling. “Friend from LA is in town,” I say.
DeShawn’s eyebrows shoot up. “Friend? Likefriendfriend?”
Jonah snorts softly. “He means a girl.”
I let out a short laugh that sounds wrong in my own ears. “No,” I say, too quick. Then I force myself to soften it into something casual. “Just a friend.”
Andre’s mouth twitches. “So, you’re bailing on pot roast for a friend.”
“I’ll make it up,” I say. “Next time.”
DeShawn points at me. “Next time you’re eating two servings. You can’t just reject Midwestern hospitality like that.”
“I’ll suffer through it,” I promise.
Jonah shakes his head, amused. “You’re doomed.”
The conversation shifts as easily as it arrived. Someone complains about their knees. Someone else makes fun of DeShawn’s playlist. A couple of guys are talking about a game on TV tonight, the kind of casual sports chatter that fills space and makes it feel less sharp.
I move through my routine, showering fast, dressing, packing my bag. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I nod at the right moments. I’m good at being present in a room without giving away what’s happening under my skin.
