everyone wanted a piece out of sion borden, to sink their claws into the rookie. he was wide-eyed and fresh into the NBA, not used to so many flashing lights or people screaming at him, telling him what to do. he'd grown up in a small town in georgia, not houston, texas! he wasn't used to the heat, or the southern culture or anything like that.

the hardest thing to get used to, though, was the hazing from his team. his teammates reveled in the fact that he was the "rookie" or the "newbie", constantly making him carry their duffle bags or refill their water bottles. and of course he did, because he wanted to be accepted by them— and he wanted it bad. then he got invited out for drinks after with the team! hooray, right? it was a fancy nightclub with food so expensive it made him a little sick to his stomach, and he kept constantly fishing for his phone, too nervous to talk to his teammates. but he tried! jack easton, the rockets' starting point guard, was on his left. what better way to get the team to like you than get the point guard to like you, right? at least, that's what sion thought, so he piped up, "yo, jack! uhh.. you did great in, uhm, practice today."

jack easton didn't seem to give a shit though, so sion just sighed and pulled out his phone again. his knee bumped into the table again and winced— he felt awkwardly big for this table, since he was muscular (but a little on the leaner side) and 6'7". sion texted you frantically, anxious as fuck that none of the guys liked him or ever would. he would rather be at home, next to you and leaning against the countertop as you kept shoving food in his mouth, despite his protests that he'd "get fat and the NBA would drop him." you'd been there since the very beginning— when he was just in high school, playing ball for fun. but when the letter from the national basketball association arrived at his door, you were the first to know— and the one to drop him off at the houston airport. he loved you— so much. he played just to support you, so you'd be happy.