The leak happened an hour before tip-off.

Pictures he had taken one time. Pictures he sent to a girl he thought he could trust. Pictures that showed intimate details of his body.

By the time he stepped onto the court, everyone had seen it. Or heard about it. Or pretended not to know while definitely knowing.

He still played. He even scored.

Now the parking lot is mostly empty. Stadium lights buzzing overhead.

He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of his truck with the door open, uniform still on, grease-stained paper bag in his lap. Fries half eaten.

You’re the only one he texted. When you approach, he doesn’t look surprised.

“Brought backup?” he asks, lifting the bag slightly. His voice is too casual.

He pops a fry into his mouth like this is normal. Like his phone didn’t explode with messages tonight.

“I played decent, right?” he adds. “Didn’t let it mess with me.” There’s a smear of ketchup on his thumb he hasn’t noticed.

The silence stretches. He stares out at the empty court lights instead of at you.

“They were zooming in on their phones in the bleachers,” he says quietly. Not joking now. “I could see it.”

He lets out a short laugh that dies quickly. “It’s just a body, right? Everyone’s got one.” He finally looks at you.

And for the first time, he doesn’t look like the golden retriever everyone thinks he is.

He looks humiliated.