No one asks follow-up questions. No one asks for names. The interviewer nods, satisfied, already turning to the next player waiting off camera.
I step away from the taped X and exhale slowly. The publicist gives me a thumbs-up and tells me I did great. I thank her, because that seems like the right thing to do, and move along with the rest of the rookies through the maze of obligations.
As the day goes on, I notice how often assumptions do the work for me.
Single. Unattached. Available.
No one says it outright. They don’t have to. The questions are shaped to leave space for answers that don’t exist. Someone jokes about “rookie freedom,” and I laugh along even as something sharp twists behind my ribs. Another interviewer asks what I like to do on nights off, and I talk about movies and food and staying in shape.
I don’t saywith my husband. I don’t saywith Rafe. I don’t say anything that would make the room tilt.
The unsettling part is how good I am at it.
By the time we’re done—photos taken, interviews wrapped, social clips recorded—I feel hollowed out in a way that has nothing to do with fatigue. I step out into the corridor, theMonarchs logo still warm against my chest, and pause, taking a deep breath.
“Hey, Marshall.”
I turn. It’s Dan, one of the vets. He’s in his early thirties, has solid minutes, and has the kind of presence that doesn’t need to announce itself. He’s already changed out of his media-day jacket, hair still damp from a quick shower.
“Hey, Dan.”
We shake hands. His grip is firm, confident, easy. This is the kind of interaction the team wants—connections forming naturally, culture building without being forced.
“Survived your first media circus?” he asks.
I huff a quiet laugh. “Barely.”
He grins. “You get used to it. Or you get good at pretending you’re used to it. Same difference.”
We start walking toward the exit together, the hallway buzzing with players and staff peeling off in different directions. For a moment, it almost feels normal. Like teammates instead of assets.
“My wife wanted me to ask you something,” Dan says casually. “We’re having a few guys over this weekend. Nothing fancy. Just food, drinks, low-key. You’re welcome to come.”
The offer lands gently—and heavily.
“That’s really nice,” I say immediately, because it is. Because this is how you integrate. How you stop being the new guy. How you show you’re not aloof or difficult or too focused on yourself to care.
“She loves hosting,” he adds. “And she’s already asking who’s single, who needs feeding, all that.”
Single.The word doesn’t sting anymore. That’s the problem.
“I’ll check my schedule,” I say, which is the safe answer. The polite one. The one that keeps doors open without committing to anything.
Dan nods like he understands. “No pressure. Just thought I’d put it out there.”
“I appreciate it,” I say. And I do.
We reach the parking area and part ways, him heading one direction, me another. I get into my car and sit there for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel, engine still silent.
I should say yes. I know that. This is how you build goodwill. How you become part of something instead of orbiting it. Saying no too often turns into a reputation before you realize it’s happening, but every spare moment feels precious right now.
I’m going to be on the road soon. Weeks where my conversations with Rafe get slotted into gaps between games and travel days, where time zones become something we negotiate instead of ignore. Weeks where seeing each other requires planning instead of impulse.
The thought of giving up an evening—of sitting at someone else’s table, making small talk about things that don’t matter—feels unbearable in a way I don’t know how to explain. I want my time with him, even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s just sitting on the couch, legs tangled, watching something neither of us is really paying attention to. Even if it’s doing nothing at all.
Especially then.
I start the car and pull out of the garage, the city opening up around me in familiar streets and angles. I’ve lived here long enough that LA doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore. It feels… neutral. A place where my life exists in compartments that don’t touch unless I force them to.
