Chapter 6
The season changes everything. I’m not even exaggerating.
Summer League was an audition with bright lights and low consequences.
Preseason was quieter, sharper, full of judgment that didn’t need to announce itself.
The regular season is something else entirely.
It’s loud and relentless, with travel days that blur into game days and arenas packed with people who already have opinions about you before you take your warm-up shots.
There are no do-overs now.
I’m not in the starting five, but I am in the rotation.
That matters. It means I get called off the bench with the expectation that I will do something useful, not just fill minutes.
It means the staff trusts me enough to put me in during real stretches of real games, when the score is tight and the crowd is on edge.
It means I can’t disappear when I’m tired, because tired is the default now.
I have good nights. I also have quiet nights where my stat line doesn’t look like much, but the film does.
Those nights matter more, as they’re the ones that make the coaches nod at me during practice, or an assistant coach pulls me aside and tells me I’m in the right spots.
Those are the nights the veterans stop treating me like a rookie who might not be here next month and start treating me like a teammate.
It’s slow progress, but it is progress. I can feel my name gaining weight, a little at a time. I can also feel the pressure building behind it.
It starts with small things. A fan calling out to me at the grocery store.
A photo snapped from across a parking lot.
A headline that uses my name like the reader should already know it.
Nothing explosive, nothing that makes me panic, but enough to remind me that visibility is not a switch you can turn on and off.
It’s something that keeps turning itself up.
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.”
Rafe doesn’t speak. Sure, this is something we’ve tentatively talked about, but I’m serious about us living together. For that to happen, we need to be firm friends. And this is me finally pulling my head out of my ass and stepping up.
I owe it to Rafe. I owe it to us.
I keep talking before I lose momentum. “Not public. Not us walking down the street holding hands. I’m not asking for that. I’m saying I want it to make sense that you’re around. That you come to things sometimes. That you’re seen with me enough that it doesn’t raise questions.”
There’s a beat of silence that presses against my ear.
“You want to beef up the friendship,” he says, dry.
I huff a soft laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t want you feeling like you have to sneak into my life,” I admit. “I don’t want you always coming in through the back door. And if people know we’re friends—real friends, not just a name—I think it takes pressure off us.”
It’s logic, but it’s also desperation wrapped in strategy.
Rafe is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Okay,” he says. “If that’s what you need.”
I close my eyes, relief and guilt colliding in my chest. “And,” I add, because I have to say it, “I want you to move your things in. Not just stay here when we’re both around, you living out of your suitcase.”
In the silence, all I hear is my thundering heart.
“Unofficially,” I rush to clarify. “Not your name on anything. No mail sent there.” I wince even as I say it, knowing I sound like a prick. “Not—” I exhale. “But I want you there when you’re in town. I want it to feel like you have a home with me.”
The words feel dangerous. Too earnest. Too exposing.
Rafe’s voice is soft when he answers. “Whenever we’re both in town, all I want is to be with you.”
The simplicity of it makes my throat tighten.
“You’re okay with that?” I ask.
“I’m okay with anything that gets me more time with you,” he says. After a beat, he adds, “I’m not okay with you thinking you have to earn the right to want that.”
I stare at the concrete floor, blinking hard. “I don’t know how to stop doing that.”
“I know,” he says gently. “We’ll figure it out.”
We’ve been saying that a lot lately. The difference is that tonight, for the first time in a while, it feels like a plan instead of a prayer.
“Send me the listings,” he says. “I want to see what you’re looking at.”
I smile, small and real. “You’re going to judge my taste.”
“Absolutely,” he replies, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “It’s my job as your totally normal former college friend.”
I laugh, and the sound surprises me with how much it loosens. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll text you.”
When the call ends, I remain standing, phone still warm in my hand, and let myself imagine it. A place that’s ours. A place where he exists. A place where the lie feels lighter, even if it doesn’t disappear.
Then I straighten and make my way to the bedroom. Because tomorrow I have practice, and next week there’s another game, and my life keeps moving forward whether I’m ready or not.
I spot Rafe across the street of the apartment building we’re about to view, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, sunglasses on, hair tucked under a cap like he’s trying not to be himself too loudly.
He looks relaxed in a way that tells me he’s not rushing off to rehearsal afterward, not counting minutes the way we sometimes have to.
When he sees me, his mouth curves into a smile that’s small but unmistakably real. “Hey,” he says when I reach him.
“Hey,” I answer, and the simple exchange steadies something inside me.
We don’t touch, but we stand close enough that our shoulders nearly brush, close enough that I’m aware of his presence in a way that has nothing to do with proximity.
The realtor—Angela—introduces herself with a firm handshake and an efficient smile once we’re in the building’s foyer.
She runs through logistics as she leads us inside the elevator, her voice calm and practiced.
“Secure entry, twenty-four-hour doorman, assigned parking,” she says.
“It’s popular with professionals who want privacy without isolation. ”