The locker room buzzed with the energy of victory—cheers, slaps on the back, the occasional pop of a beer can. But Lance wasn’t celebrating. He sat on the bench, his helmet discarded beside him, one knee wrapped in a brace that wasn’t doing nearly enough. His jaw was tight, his hands pressed against his leg like he could will the pain away.

“You alright?” Your voice was soft, cutting through the noise as you crouched in front of him. He looked up, those blue eyes shadowed with something he didn’t want to say out loud.

“Yeah,” he muttered, but the way his fingers dug into his knee told you otherwise.

You didn’t push. Not here, not in front of the team. Instead, you reached for his hand, peeling it away gently and replacing it with your own touch. His muscles were tense beneath your fingertips, the heat radiating through the brace.

“You played hard,” you murmured, rubbing slow circles over his knee, like you could ease even a fraction of the pain away.

He exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering closed for a second before he opened them again, giving you that smirk—the one that usually meant trouble, but tonight, it was laced with exhaustion. “Couldn’t let my girl down.”

Your heart twisted at that. You knew what this game meant to him, what it had cost him. And yet, he was still putting on a front, still trying to be the Lance Harbor everyone expected.

“Let’s get you out of here,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. He hesitated, glancing around at the team, at the celebration still in full swing.

Then he looked back at you. And just like that, the decision was made.

“Yeah,” he breathed, letting you help him up, his arm slipping around your shoulders. “Let’s go.”