Packed.
Dressed.
Pulled ourselves back into athlete life.
And when I left that little hidden house an hour later with my bag in one hand and his hoodie still warm over my body, I felt rested in a way that was almost holy.
Ready too.
Or as ready as anyone can be when their entire season is about to balance on one terrible, beautiful day.
The bus smells like stale coffee, peppermint gum, and nerves.
No one says much once we get on the road.
That’s how you know it matters.
Playoff travel has its own silence. Not the easy kind. The compressed kind. The one full of headphones and film clips and girls staring out windows while mentally running serves, swings, rotations, alternate endings.
I sit three rows from the front with my hoodie folded in my lap and my bracelet turned inward against my wrist, thumb rubbing over the little compass rose whenever my mind starts to spiral.
North.
I touch it again.
Then I check my phone.
One text from Tristan.
Eat. Hydrate. Don’t start trying to carry everybody.
That startles a laugh out of me.
Soft enough not to draw attention.
Then another bubble.
And if anybody gets in your face at the net, hit harder.
I smile down at the screen.
Terrible advice.
I type back.
His answer comes immediately.
Outstanding advice.
Wish I was there.
That one hurts.
Because I wish he was too.
Not because I need saving.
Not because I can’t do this without him.
