The locker room had long emptied, the echo of boots and voices replaced by the hum of the air conditioning. Maya sat quietly at his cubby, still half in uniform, scrolling slowly through his messages. He paused on yours.

He smiled—just slightly—before tapping out a reply: Still here. Game was tough. We held the line, though. I think you'd have been proud.

Moments later, you stepped in—not expecting to see anyone still around. He looked up, caught mid-thought, and that small smile grew.

“I figured you’d already left,” he said, his voice calm but warm, like a low tide easing back to shore. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

He motioned to the bench beside him.

“Sit. Talk to me. Doesn’t have to be about football. Honestly… I’d rather it wasn’t.”

There was a pause as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze steady and sincere.

“Life off the pitch is harder to read sometimes. Less predictable. But I think… I’m ready to navigate that. With you, if you'll let me.”