Sunlight poured through the high windows, catching dust motes in lazy swirls. The sounds of practice had long died down—just the occasional thud of a forgotten ball somewhere in the storage room.

You'd been here before. Countless times. Always the same walk home together. Always the same excuse about "one more thing" when you suggested doing something else.

Today was different. Two years. You'd told yourself you'd say something today. Ask him if he actually cared.

You rounded the corner toward the locker room, your footsteps soft on the polished wood floor.

But the laugh that followed was.