Chapter 2 #2
I sit at my stall and peel off my shoes slowly, working through the postgame ritual like it’s a prayer. Tape off. Socks off. Ankles rolled. Ice pack waiting.
My wedding ring isn’t on my finger. It’s where it always is now—threaded onto a leather cord, tucked under my shirt, resting against my chest like a secret brand.
Some days I barely feel it. Tonight it burns.
A couple of lockers down, Marco—one of the few guys on the team who seems to have been born mid-laugh—drops onto the bench and nudges my knee with his. “Rook,” he says. “You got a pulse in there, or you still in robot mode?”
“I’m breathing,” I answer, because that’s what I do. Dry. Even. Controlled.
He grins like he approves. “You were solid out there.”
“Yeah,” someone else adds, voice rough. One of the vets. Not a star, but an actual League body, the kind who knows where every camera is without having to look. “Stayed vertical. Didn’t foul. Coach likes that.”
My stomach flips at the casual certainty in his tone.
Coach likes that. As if Coach liking something is a rare weather event.
Across the room, another guy, Kirk—newer, flashy, the type who thinks confidence is volume—snorts. “It’s Summer League. Relax. Everybody’s solid in July.”
No one laughs. A couple of guys smirk anyway, like they don’t want to be the one to challenge him. No one shuts him down. I watch that too. The politics aren’t subtle here. They’re just quiet.
Marco rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t push. He’s smart. He’s loud, but he’s not stupid. Instead, he claps his hands once. “All right, listen up. Team night. Coach wants ‘culture.’” He makes air quotes. “We hit the club. We pretend we like each other. We don’t get arrested.”
Groans ripple through the room. Someone throws a towel at his head. He catches it without looking and keeps going. “Rook, you’re coming.”
It’s not a question.
“I don’t—” I start.
Marco points at me. “Don’t be weird. It’s one night.”
I glance toward the showers, toward the exit, toward the quiet I want like water. But I know the rules: Don’t isolate yourself. Don’t be the rookie who thinks he’s above it. Don’t give them an excuse to label you difficult.
So I nod. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
“That’s my guy,” Marco says, satisfied.
We scatter to clean up, and the locker room thins.
I shower fast, letting the hot water pound against my neck until some of the tension drains out.
When I dress, I choose simple—dark jeans, a plain shirt, jacket.
No logos. No statements. I tuck the cord back into place below my collarbone.
The ring settles against my skin as a comforting reminder.
Outside, the night is warm and bright, LA pretending it isn’t already exhausted.
We pile into rides. Music blasts. Someone’s already talking about after-parties like they’re inevitable.
By the time we reach the club, there’s a line out the door, a velvet rope, and a bouncer who recognizes two of our guys instantly.
We don’t wait. We slide in like we belong.
Inside, everything is lights and bodies and bass so loud it feels like it rearranges your bones. The air smells like perfume, alcohol, and money. A hostess leads us to a table that’s already set up with bottles we didn’t order—team perks that it’s going to take a while for me to get my head around.
Someone toasts. Someone laughs too hard. Someone starts filming.
I don’t do any of the above. I keep my phone in my pocket. I sit, drink soda, and try to look like I’m enjoying myself.
Marco leans in close so I can hear him over the music. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
He studies me for a second, then nods like he understands more than he says. “Just don’t disappear. Vets hate that.”
I nod in understanding and don’t disappear. Instead, I do the rounds. I shake hands. I let strangers take photos. I answer the same three questions on loop—how’s LA, how’s the team, am I excited for camp.
I say the right things. I smile when I’m supposed to. And still, loneliness sneaks up on me like a hand around the throat. Because there are moments—small, stupid moments—where instinct takes over. A song comes on that I know Rafe would hate, and my first thought is to text him this is criminal.
A girl laughs at something I say and touches my arm, and my body reacts with that automatic politeness that doesn’t mean anything—except it makes me feel like a fraud. Because she’s beautiful and is clearly interested, and everyone expects me to be interested back.
The ring presses warm against my chest, hidden. I keep thinking about the ten days since I last saw Rafe. Ten days isn’t long. Not really. But when your life is constant noise, ten days without the one person who makes the noise quiet feels like starvation.
I’m at the edge of the dance floor when a woman steps into my space like she’s done it a hundred times. A confident smile is aimed my way. Glitter highlights the corners of her eyes. She leans in close, voice brushing my ear. “You’re Oliver Marshall, right?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I watched the game.” Her hand lands on my bicep like she’s testing if I’m real. “You were insane.”
“Thanks,” I say carefully.
She tilts her head. “You celebrating?”
“Team thing,” I answer, which is not an answer.
Her smile sharpens like she enjoys the challenge. “You should celebrate with me.”
My body goes still—not frozen, but… braced. I picture the leather cord, the ring, the vows said in a cheap chapel with a guitar-string band and Rafe’s hands shaking when he slid it onto my finger.
I swallow. And I do what I’ve learned to do: I redirect. “Appreciate it,” I say politely. “But I’m here with the guys.”
She pouts like it’s a game. “They can share.”
Behind her, Kirk—the legit asshole from our team—watches the interaction with a grin that says he expects me to play along. He expects a story, a win, likely a bullshit conquest story.
I hate that expectation almost more than the flirting itself.
The woman leans in again. “You got a girlfriend?”
The answer should be simple. It isn’t. I can’t say I have a husband. Not here. Not like this. Not when I’m still fighting for a place and everyone around me is watching for anything to turn into a weakness.
So I do something that tastes like ash. I smile, a little apologetic, a little vague. “It’s complicated.”
She laughs like that makes it hotter. “Mmm. I like complicated.”
I don’t laugh back. I feel the ring burn and step back just enough to break the spell. “Enjoy your night,” I say, and then I move toward the table, toward the cluster of bodies that makes me harder to corner.
Marco catches my expression and reads it immediately. He steps in without making it obvious, slinging an arm around my shoulders like we’re brothers. “Rook,” he shouts, “come meet my cousin’s friend’s cousin or whatever. Networking.”
He drags me away, saving me without making a scene. I hate how grateful I am.
At the table, I do a double take. Two familiar faces are at the bar—hovering like they’re not sure they belong here either.
It’s a couple of old college buddies. Not my teammates from the Panthers—some of those guys are scattered now, chasing their own dreams—but friends from the orbit of my old life.
People who knew me before I was a draft pick and a headline.
They see me at the same time. One of them lifts his glass in a small salute. The other grins wide. My chest loosens, because they’re real. They’re mine from my former world.
I cross over, and Jamie claps my shoulder. “Look at you,” he says, loud over the music. “League and shit.”
“Summer League,” I correct automatically.
Jamie laughs. “Man, nobody cares. You made it.”
The second guy, Tal, leans in. “We saw your minutes. You looked good.”
“Thanks,” I say, and the word feels more honest than anything I’ve said all night.
They start talking—about campus, about mutual friends, about how LA still feels like a movie set if you stare too long. They don’t mention Rafe. Not directly. They don’t know he’s anything but the “band guy” I used to hang around with.
And I keep it that way.
But when one of them says, “So, you still talk to that dude? The one with the band? Steel Saints, right?” my heart stutters, and I keep my face steady.
“Yeah,” I say. “Rafe. We’re… friends. Me and the band.”
It’s true. It’s just not enough truth.
They nod like that makes sense. “They’re blowing things up. Couldn’t believe when I saw them on a TV interview last month.”
“Yeah,” I say, somewhat lamely, despite how damn proud I was of Rafe and the guys during the interview. And then when they played a set live… honestly, it’s no wonder everyone wants a piece of them.
The conversation rolls on. My teammates drift over, curious, sizing up who I know outside of them. For a few minutes, it feels almost normal.
Then Kirk shows up again, drink in hand, grin lazy. He looks at my friends, looks at me. “Marshall,” he says, “you always this quiet at clubs while everyone else is having a good time? Or you saving your energy for the ladies?”
A couple of guys laugh. Not hard, but enough. And I understand, suddenly, with a clarity that hits like a shove: This is what my life is going to be. A constant balancing act. A constant performance. A constant swallowing of the name that actually matters.
I force a smile. “I’m good,” I say.
Kirk shrugs like he doesn’t care either way. But his eyes linger on me like he’s waiting for me to slip.
Marco appears again like gravity, intercepting. “All right, rook’s not on a mission tonight,” he says. “Back off.”
Kirk scoffs, but he backs off, because Marco’s loud enough to be inconvenient.
I exhale while my friends keep talking, unaware of what nearly surfaced under my skin. They don’t know my ring is hidden under my shirt. They don’t know I’m counting the minutes until I can leave.
By the time we finally head out—stumbling into the humid night air, blinking at the sudden quiet—I feel wrung out in a way the game didn’t do to me.