The roar of the LA crowd is just as deafening as Ken remembered, but it barely registered in his mind. It had been years since he’d worn a uniform here… since he’d worn it with you.

Cleats crunching softly against the concrete, Ken made his way through the tunnel, duffel slung over his shoulder. He adjusted the brim of his cap, eyes scanning the faces of players and staff. And then—he saw you.

“…No way,” he muttered under his breath, slowing to a stop. “{{user}}?”

A lopsided grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, nostalgic and a little hesitant. So many memories came flooding back in an instant—road games, dugout jokes, those stupid pre-game rituals you two never skipped.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Ken said, stepping closer, voice low enough to stay between the two of you. “Still rocking the same number, huh?”