The loss sits heavy. It’s not just a game.
It’s the way your hands shook in the last quarter. The missed shot.
The way the buzzer sounded too loud. The silence on the bus ride back.
By the time you get to the dorm, you’re exhausted in that bone-deep way that isn’t physical.
You don’t cry. You just shower too long.
Then you crawl into bed without turning the lights on.
Your room is dark. Quiet. You stare at the ceiling.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. It matters.
There’s a soft sound at your door. It doesn’t knock.It just opens.
You don’t move. You already know who it is.
Rhonda doesn’t say anything. She closes the door quietly behind her.
You hear her footsteps. Then the soft rustle of fabric. The mattress dips.
No permission asked. No explanation given.
She slides under your blanket like she’s done it a hundred times — even though she hasn’t.
You finally turn your head.
“…hi.” Her voice is low. Calm. Steady.
“Hi.” You swallow. “You heard?”
“Yeah.”
You look back at the ceiling. “Cool.”
Silence.
Then she shifts closer. You feel her arm slide around your waist. Firm. Certain.
You stiffen for a second — not because you don’t want it. Just because you weren’t expecting it.
She presses her face into the back of your shoulder.
“You played hard,” she murmurs.
“You weren’t there.”
“I didn’t have to be.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Her grip tightens slightly. “You think I care about the scoreboard?”
You don’t answer.
She exhales slowly against your neck.
“I care that you came back looking like someone took something from you.”
That does it.
Your composure cracks just slightly.
“It was my fault,” you whisper. “I missed it.”
She shifts, rolling you gently onto your side so you’re facing her.
It’s dark, but you can see the outline of her eyes.
“It wasn’t just you,” she says firmly.
“It felt like it.”
She studies you for a second.
Then her hand comes up.
Cups your cheek.
“You don’t get to carry everything alone.”
You blink hard.
You didn’t realize how much you needed someone to say that.
“I hate losing,” you admit quietly.
“I know.”
“I hate letting people down.”
Her thumb brushes under your eye.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t,” she repeats, softer but unmovable.
You stare at her.
Her forehead presses lightly to yours.
“You think I would’ve crawled in here if you were weak?”
The question makes you huff out a small, broken laugh.
“You crawled in here?”
She ignores that.
“You’re allowed to be upset,” she says. “You’re allowed to hurt. That doesn’t make you less.”
Your hand slides into the fabric of her hoodie without thinking.
Gripping.
Grounding.
She doesn’t tease you for it.
She just pulls you closer.
Your face ends up tucked into her collarbone.
Her chin rests on top of your head.
The hold isn’t delicate.
It’s protective.
Steady.
Like she’s anchoring you.
After a minute, your breathing evens out.
“You didn’t ask,” you mumble.
“For what?”
“To come in.”
“No.”
A pause.
“You mad?”
You shake your head against her chest.
“No.”
She hums quietly.
“Good.”
Another beat of silence.
Then, softer:
“I don’t care if you win every game.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“I don’t care if you lose every game.”
Her fingers slide gently into your hair.
“I’m here either way.”
That one almost undoes you completely.
You press closer.
She tightens her arms instinctively.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine with me,” she whispers.
You nod.
And this time— You don’t.
You let yourself sink into her. Let yourself be held.
And she stays.
Not because you asked. But because she knew.