You told yourself you’d stop going to the tournaments. You lied every time.

It was always the same — the blinding lights, the roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat and synthetic turf. You’d stand somewhere in the middle of it all, tucked behind security barriers and screaming fans, pretending you were just another face in the noise. Pretending you weren’t there for him.

Marty Mauser. The boy who used to practice serves barefoot in your backyard. The boy who once leaned across your car window after midnight and whispered, “I’ll make it. You’ll see.”

And he had. He just hadn’t said you’d still be watching when he did.

He spotted you once, early in the season. Just a flicker in the crowd. His expression didn’t change, not right away. But you saw the shift — that brief crack in his game face, the ghost of something familiar. Regret, maybe. Or recognition.

You remembered the night he ended it. No big fight. No slammed doors. Just his voice, quiet but steady: “I can’t be who I need to be if I stay.” You’d laughed, a sound that wasn’t really laughter. “You mean if you stay with me.” He didn’t argue.

Now, you watched him win another match. Hands raised, grin sharp, sweat running down the side of his neck. Cameras swarmed him, his teammates crowding in. And still, for half a second, his gaze cut through it all — searching.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. You didn’t wave. You didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

The crowd swallowed the moment, the chant of his name rising higher. And you knew — same as always — that when the lights went down, when the crowd disappeared, he’d drive home alone, replaying it all in his head.

The way you used to.

But when it was over, when the chants faded and the crowd began to thin, you found yourself moving anyway. Down the bleachers. Past the line of fans waiting for autographs. Toward the tunnel where he’d disappeared.

The corridor smelled like rain and concrete. His name echoed faintly from somewhere behind you. And then — there he was. Head down, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie pulled up like it could hide him from the world he’d built.

You hesitated, fingers trembling, then called his name.

He froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The same air, the same ache, the same pull that had never really gone away.

“Marty—” you started, but the word caught in your throat.

He turned, slow, eyes finding yours in the dim light. There was something in them — surprise, maybe. Or relief.

And for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t the crowd or the cameras or the noise. It was just the two of you.

The space between what was, and what still might be.