The next night, after another win, I’m halfway through unlacing my shoes when a PR assistant pokes her head into the locker room and says my name. Not the whole name. Just “Ollie,” like we’re familiar.
I glance up, expecting a mistake.
She’s already looking at her clipboard. “Media wants you.”
I almost laugh. “You sure?”
She nods without looking at me, like this is routine. “Yeah. They’re waiting.”
Theyis usually two people, max. Maybe three if someone’s bored. Tonight it’s a small cluster that somehow feels bigger than it is.
Cameras are pointed in my general direction. A boom mic hovers just overhead. A reporter I recognize from earlier in the season—same suit, same voice—locks eyes with me and smiles like he’s pleased we’re meeting again.
“How did you feel about your role down the stretch tonight?” he asks.
Not about being ready. Not about getting the opportunity.Your role.
I answer automatically. Talk about trusting the system. Staying locked in. Doing what Coach asks.
He nods. “You mentioned last week that you’ve been focusing on defensive reads. Was that something you felt paid off tonight?”
I pause for half a beat.Last week?He remembers what I said last week.
“Yeah,” I say, careful now. “I think so. I’m trying to be more disciplined, especially late in the game.”
Another reporter jumps in before the first can respond. “Do you feel like teams are starting to game-plan for you?”
The question lands sideways in my chest.
Game-plan.
For me.
I keep my face neutral. “I think teams game-plan for everyone in the rotation,” I say. “My job is just to be ready.”
“Coach seemed to trust you in that final stretch,” someone else adds. “How does that feel, earning that kind of confidence?”
I almost saysurreal. I almost sayterrifying. Instead, I say, “It means a lot. I’m grateful.”
Grateful is safe. Grateful doesn’t give them anything sharp to hold on to.
When they finally let me go, my jaw aches like I’ve been clenching it without realizing.
Back in the locker room, Marco raises his eyebrows. “Look at you,” he says. “Getting follow-ups.”
“Don’t start,” I mutter, shoving my stuff into my bag.
He grins. “Too late. They remember your name now. That’s how it begins.”
“Please don’t say that like it’s a horror movie.”
He laughs. “It is.”
The next few games blur together—airports, buses, hotels, arenas that all look the same if you squint.
Someone yells across the room. Someone laughs too loud. A speaker thumps bass like it’s trying to rattle the tiles loose.
“They know now,” I mutter under my breath, mostly to myself, recalling Rafe’s words from the other day.
