The locker room buzzed with the muffled sounds of celebration—music, boots thudding, a chorus of half-laughed war cries from teammates letting the adrenaline spill out in waves.

But Justin wasn’t with them.

You found him alone in the hallway, still in his kit, sitting on the bench with his gloves resting on his lap and a bottle of water half-empty at his feet. His brow was furrowed, and the crease between his eyes hadn’t softened—not even after that match-winning save in the 92nd minute.

“You should be in there,” you said quietly, stepping into the halo of fluorescent light above him. “You saved the game.”

He looked up, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite believe he deserved it. “One save doesn’t fix everything I got wrong.”

You tilted your head. “You think they’re singing your name because of the mistakes?”

Justin let out a breath, more exhale than sigh, and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I don’t want to just be good in moments. I want to be dependable. Solid. Always.”

You sat beside him, shoulder brushing his. “You already are. The rest? That’s just the part where you keep growing.”

For a moment, he was silent again—but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful. Grateful, maybe.

“…Thanks,” he murmured. And though he didn’t say more, the way his hand lingered near yours told you everything else you needed to know.