Lets me be quiet on the days I can’t find anything useful to say.
One night he finds me sitting cross-legged on the floor of my room with my season duffel still half-unpacked and asks, “You want help?”
I look up at him.
At the hoodie.
At the duffel over one shoulder.
At the gentle caution in his face, like he knows this is sacred wreckage.
“No,” I say.
A beat.
Then:
“Yes.”
So he sits on the floor with me.
No speech.
No fixing.
He hands me clean tape rolls, folds warm-ups, coils resistance bands, stacks practice shirts, and acts like none of this is tragic even while treating it like it matters.
That’s the line he walks with me.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing diminished.
Just real.
When his season starts to surge, I feel it before the stats even say it.
The campus buzz shifts.
The basketball side of the complex gets louder.
His games start filling.
His name starts moving through sports media with more heat.
The first time I sit in the stands for one of his big games after my season ends, I have this weird split-second of dislocation.
Like I should be somewhere else.
Under lights.
In motion.
Needed differently.
Instead I’m in his hoodie with my hands wrapped around coffee and my heart climbing into my throat every time he touches the ball.
Then he glances into the stands.
