It’s why it takes me longer than it should to look at apartments.
Eric, my agent, asked early on if I wanted to buy. He was excited in the way agents tend to be, already imagining stability and investment and the kind of adult milestone that looks good on paper. I told him not yet and that I want to rent first. I also told him I want to find my footing.
The truth is that I’m still afraid of claiming space. Temporary has been safer. Temporary means I can pack up quickly. That I’m not tempting fate. That my life stays light enough to move when it has to.
But the season keeps moving anyway. Games stack on top of one another. Practices fill the days between. My body adapts in small ways I don’t notice until I wake up one morning and realize I no longer feel like I’m holding my breath every time I step onto the court.
I’m still earning my place, but I’m not drowning.
That’s when the hotel starts to feel less like safety and more like a cage.
I’m tired after a home game and return to the hotel suite the team has me in, standing in the kitchen staring at the tiny kitchenette and the generic art on the walls. The space is clean,comfortable, and entirely forgettable. It’s never smelled like me. It’s never held any of my habits. It definitely doesn’t feel like a place where I live. It feels like a place where I’m stored.
I think about Rafe. About how often we have to measure ourselves when we’re together. About how careful we are with the curtains and the entrances and the timing of everything. About how the best parts of our relationship happen in stolen hours that always end too soon.
I want a place that’s ours. Not officially. Not publicly. Not in any way that would be recorded or documented. But in the only way that matters to me.
I want a place where, when Rafe comes home from rehearsal, he can kick his shoes off by the door and leave them there. I want a place where he can open the fridge and complain about my taste in groceries. I want a place where I can come back from a road trip and find evidence that he exists in my life without it being a risk.
I want something that feels like we belong to each other when the world insists we don’t.
It’s practical. I need a stable base now that the regular season is underway. I also need privacy—as much as possible to make my life with my husband easier and to make every second count. I need something close to the training facility and the arena. All of that is true.
It’s also not the whole truth.
Taking a deep breath, I call Rafe. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he says, and just that one word shifts the air in my chest.
“Hey,” I answer. “You busy?”
“Always,” he says, then softens. “Not too busy for you. What’s up?”
I hesitate, just long enough to collect myself. “I think I’m ready to find a place.”
There’s a pause, and I can picture his face as he processes it. The little lift of his eyebrows. The quiet attention.
“For you?” he asks carefully.
“For me,” I say. Then, because he deserves my honesty, I add, “For us too. When you’re here.”
His exhale is soft, almost relieved. “Okay.”
“I want you to come with me,” I add. “If you can.”
Another pause follows. This one’s longer. I can hear faint noise in the background on his end—guitar strings, a voice calling something out. He’s probably in the studio or at rehearsal, living inside his own controlled chaos.
“I can make time,” he says finally. “When are you thinking?”
“This week,” I answer. “I have a day off between practices. It’s not a full day, but it’s something.”
“I’ll be there,” he says, and the certainty in his voice warms me in a way I don’t deserve.
I swallow. “There’s another thing.”
“Yeah?” His voice is gentle, but I can hear him bracing.
“I know we’ve been careful,” I say slowly. “I know why. But I think… I think we need to be a little less invisible.”
