Page 5

I drag my duffel up the polished stairs, the strap biting into my shoulder, seams stretched to their limits. Everyone else is hauling designer luggage. Custom bags with college team logos embroidered across them. Roller cases that probably cost more than what I had in my bank account last month.

Some have parents trailing behind, moms snapping pictures, dads giving shoulder slaps and last-minute advice. Money. Support. Safety nets.

I’ve got a duffel that smells like turf tape and desperation, a pair of cleats that are three seasons old, and a box of protein bars crushed at the bottom of my bag. No one’s trailing behind me. No one waiting to catch me if I fall. Which means, I can’t … not this time.

I shoulder through the sleek new hallway to Room 323—fresh white paint, crisp black numbers printed perfectly above the door. Swipe the key card. Push the door open.

Inside, it’s spotless. Two twin beds with sharp hospital corners. Two desks. A shared closet. No posters. No clutter. No memories yet. Just a blank, empty space—a fresh slate—waiting to see who’ll earn the right to stay.

I drop my duffel on the bed nearest the window, the thud loud enough to echo against the bare walls. For a second, I just sit there, pushing past the noise and seeking the silence.

Then laughter comes from the hallway, girls teasing each other about the players they pulled for, baby daddies, and calling dibs.

“Leave it to you to choose a married one,” one says, and I wonder if the other married players are going through the same shit.

“In my fantasy, he’s single.” They laugh.

She continues, “You know what you get when you add sixty-eight and therightone?”

They all laugh and whisper, giggles ofsixty-nineechoing through the hall.

When the door opens, I step into the bathroom, not wanting to embarrass the girl.

I see two dark-haired girls set a giant basket on each of the desks, and then one whispers, “Shit, there’s a bag here.”

Muffled laughter comes from the hall, and shushing comes from the giggling girls who exit the room quickly.

When I walk out, I see my name on a gold nameplate set inside a giant black basket.

Knights swag.Fucking epic, I think as I rub my hands together and step to the one with my name on it.

The first thing I see is an iPad still wrapped in plastic. The playbook, the fucking playbook. There’s a black metal Knights-branded water bottle. A few folded shirts, compression shorts, socks, black slides, and even boxers all with the Knights’ logo.

Underneath all the snacks they packed in the basket, in bold, block letters, stitched into midnight-black mesh, is my last name.

My throat tightens. I’m barely breathing. Just standing here, letting my hands rest on the edge of the desk for a second.

Everything in this basket is brand new, but I’m still carrying the old version of me, the kid from a dead-end town who only ever felt useful when he had a ball in his hands and something worth hitting in front of him.

That kid? He never saw a room like this, only dreamed of it.

But this isn’t a dream, not a what-if. And the jersey is not just fabric and thread—it has weight and meaning … a promise.

I move toward it slowly, like if I touch it too fast, it might vanish. I pick it up.

It’s crisp. New. It smells like ink, and polyester, and expectation. I run my fingers over the stitching—first my last name, then the number.

I hold it out and let it unfold.

GRIMES

Not the number I wore in college. But right now? It’s the number that means I belong. I’m here, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it count.

* * *

It isn’t until after the team dinner, when I’m lying in bed, a kid from California who thinks he’s better than me, Stockton, sawing wood, that I remember the giggling girls, and I’m 68 …

I let that inflate my ego a bit and fall asleep smiling.