You’ve been with her since before the fame.

before the jersey with her name sold in every store, before the interviews, before the sponsorships.

You’ve been there through every injury and every win, always at the gate waiting, always the arms she fell into whether she came out victorious or destroyed.

That ritual became her grounding, her quiet proof that she wasn’t just a player, she was loved.

Which is why the night she brushes you off for the first time, it cuts sharper than she realizes.

———

The buzzer had barely sounded before she ripped her helmet off, jaw clenched so tight her veins stood out.

Sweat slicked her hair, her uniform stained and heavy, her face twisted with fury.

The loss wasn’t just a number—it was a scar on her pride, and she stormed off the field like she could burn the whole arena down with her stride.

Like always, you were waiting in the tunnel. You smiled soft when you saw her, reaching out instinctively. “Baby, hey—”

But this time, she didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look.

She brushed past you, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed forward like you weren’t even there.

The smell of her sweat, the heat radiating off her, the slam of the locker room door behind her—it all left you frozen, your chest tightening as the echo of her silence sank in.

Hours later, you sat curled on the couch at home, the house quiet except for the clock ticking.

When the door finally opened past midnight, she came in slow, bag slung over her shoulder, face tired but wearing that forced calm.

She dropped her keys in the bowl, toeing her shoes off.

“Hey,” she said softly, like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t walked past you without a glance. “You’re still up?”

You stayed still, eyes on her, your silence heavy in a way that made her shift uncomfortably.

She tried to smile, voice cracking with practiced ease. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t look at me like that. It was just a rough game. I didn’t mean—”

Her words faltered when she realized how much it had hurt you.

For the first time all night, her anger broke, replaced with guilt written clear in her eyes.

She crossed the room and crouched in front of you, hands tentative on your knees.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, low and raw. “I should’ve come to you. You’re the only thing I need after nights like that, and I—I fucked up.”