Then it clicks.
It’s a half-court.
Not literal. Not obvious. Just the curve of the line, the quiet suggestion of the key. And running straight through it, like an axis, like a spine—my old jersey number. The one I wore in college. The one that mattered before anything was monetized or turned into a brand.
My breath leaves me in a rush. “Rafe,” I whisper, like saying his name might steady me. “You didn’t.”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing miserably. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s… my court,” I say, stunned. “From college.”
He nods, eyes suddenly fixed on the floor. “It was important to you. Where you lived. Where everything started.”
While he doesn’t mean literally, my chest fills so fast it hurts. He came to watch so many games after that first moment we made eye contact in a light-filled corridor.
I reach out without thinking, fingers hovering just above the ink, reverent. I don’t touch at first—like it might vanish if I do. “It kind of is a big deal.”
He exhales, the cockiness slipping completely now. “I was tired of carrying you only in my head.”
That does it. I lean forward and press my forehead between his shoulder blades, breathing him in, trying not to drown in the weight of it. In the permanence. In the way he found a way to claim me without saying my name, without outing us, without asking permission from a future that keeps making us wait.
“You’re killing me,” I murmur.
He laughs softly and reaches back, lacing our fingers together, squeezing once like he needs to feel me there too. “You love it.”
“I love you,” I correct.
He stills at that—just for a second. Then he squeezes my hand again, grounding, certain. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I know.”
We finish getting dressed in companionable silence. He pulls on a T-shirt, fabric brushing over the ink, hiding it from the world again. I grab my jacket, tuck my wallet into my pocket, feel the familiar press of the ring against my chest.
The day waits for us on the other side of the door—complicated and loud and uncertain. But for now, there are almond croissants. And us. And the quiet knowledge that even when the future keeps pulling us apart, we’re still finding ways to mark each other—subtle, lasting, and entirely ours.
4
Media day feelsnothing like basketball. There’s no rhythm to it or momentum. Just sharp starts and stops, flashes of light, voices calling my name before I’ve fully oriented myself in the room. I’ve done press before—college interviews, postgame scrums, local radio where the hosts still sounded a little impressed—but this is different.
This is curated.
I’m standing on a taped X on the floor, Monarchs logo positioned carefully behind my left shoulder, while a woman with a headset and immaculate eyeliner checks her tablet and nods. Someone adjusts the lighting, angling it just enough that it doesn’t wash out my face. Another person steps in to smooth the front of my jacket like I’m a display, not a person.
“Ollie,” a voice says brightly. “Just a few quick questions.”
Quick, I learn, doesn’t mean easy.
“How does it feel to finally be here?”
I answer honestly. It feels good. It feels earned. It feels like something I’ve been working toward for so long that now it’s here, my body hasn’t quite caught up yet.
“What’s it like adjusting to LA?”
I almost smile at that. I’ve lived in Los Angeles for three years already, but I know what they mean. Not the city. The League. The scale of it. I talk about facilities, about learning from vets, about staying focused. The words come easily.
“And who’s been your biggest support through all of this?”
Something tightens in my chest. I don’t pause long enough for anyone to notice. I smile, easy, practiced. “My family’s been great,” I say. “And I’ve got some close friends from college who’ve really kept me grounded.”
It isn’t a lie. It’s just not the truth.
