Practice whistles back in, and we jog to our spots. The drill starts fast and stays there—hard cuts, quick passes, defensive switches that demand trust as much as speed. Ryan misses arotation early, overcorrects on the next one, then settles into the rhythm like his body finally remembers what it knows how to do.
By the end, he’s breathing hard but grinning, adrenaline bright in his eyes.
He made it through.
Coach blows the final whistle and calls us in. A few corrections, one barked warning about sloppy feet, a nod in my direction that would have meant everything to me a year ago and now just registers as information. When he dismisses us, the mood shifts instantly. Laughter bleeds back in. Someone throws a towel at someone else. The tension cracks.
Ryan lets out a long breath. “Bloody hell,” he says. “Thought I was gonna throw up.”
“You didn’t,” I point out.
“Low bar,” he says, but he’s smiling now, shoulders looser.
We head for the locker room together, the noise rising around us. Someone claps Ryan on the back and calls him “Aussie” like it’s a compliment and a nickname all at once. He beams, trying to play it cool and failing.
It hits me, somewhere between the showers and the lockers, how different this feels. I’m not the new guy anymore. No one calls me “LA” now. No sideways glances, no measuring looks. I know where my locker is without thinking. I know who likes music on during tape and who needs silence. I know which assistant coach hates questions and which one pretends not to.
I belong here.
That realization lands quietly but solidly, like something finally locking into place.
The last season with the Eagles was almost all of it—long, grinding, unexpectedly good. I found my footing early, stayed healthy, played my role and then some. Closed quarters. Started games when injuries hit. Earned trust the boring way, through consistency.
More importantly, I stopped waking up every morning feeling like the world was sitting on my chest.
I’m always on top of my game now, but the difference is, I don’t feel like one wrong step will send everything crashing down. I play hard. I recover. I move on.
It’s… easier. Which is a dangerous thing to admit.
“Oi,” Troy calls from across the room. “You packing your sunscreen or what?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of LA?” he scoffs. “Please. I’ve seen your weather apps.”
Dom chimes in, tying his hair up. “He’s flying out, right? Three days off and he bolts.”
“I’ll bring you souvenirs,” I say. “Like traffic.”
They laugh, good-natured and loud.
We do, in fact, have a rare three-day break. Early February, right around the All-Star lull. Enough time to breathe, not enough to lose momentum. Coach announced it this morning, and the room practically vibrated with relief.
I told them I was flying out. They didn’t need to ask where.
“You seeing your rock star friends?” Troy asks, eyebrows waggling.
“Someone needs to give them a dose of reality,” I say, playing along and focusing on me being friendly with the Steel Saints band rather than being married to the front man.
Ryan glances between us, curious but smart enough not to pry.
“Have fun,” Dom says. “Try not to bring the California chaos back with you.”
I promise nothing. But even as the jokes bounce around, there’s a tightness in my chest that doesn’t quite ease.
It’s been three months since I’ve seen Rafe. Three months of long-distance calls and trying to stitch intimacy together out ofpixels and time zones. I hate it. I miss him in the dull, aching way that doesn’t always announce itself but never really leaves.
And at the same time—this is the part I don’t say out loud—I breathe easier without constantly looking over my shoulder. Without having to do the math every time we step outside together, and without the fear of being seen.
