Chapter Text
The start of the NBA regular season had a sound.
It wasn't the roar of the crowd—though that was part of it. It was something quieter, something closer. The echo of sneakers on hardwood, the low rumble of pregame hype tracks bouncing off the walls of State Farm Arena, the zip of velcro as players adjusted sleeves, braces, wraps.
Theresa Young knew the sound by heart.
She stood just off the court, behind the bench, arms crossed over her chest and eyes scanning the energy around her. Her badge caught a bit of light from the overheads. It swung softly with every shift of her weight, clipped to the front of a cropped Hawks windbreaker she didn't think twice about putting on.
This was home.
Not the spotlight. Not the headlines. But the space behind them—the machinery of game nights, the rhythm of schedules, the people who knew how to be invisible while everything around them stayed loud.
She'd been here since she was a kid. First in the stands. Then backstage. Then on lists. Now in roles. She worked across digital content, handled social integrations, consulted with the comms team, and floated wherever she was needed—especially when it came to Trae.
The court glowed beneath her, polished and perfect. Warmups were in full swing, the team stretching, shooting, bouncing energy off each other like static. Her brother was already on the floor, shooting through pregame warmups with the same loose focus he always had. His hoodie was still on, sleeves pushed up. He hadn't gotten serious yet. But he would.
Theresa watched him knock down three in a row before she finally let herself breathe. She smiled as Trae jogged past, nodding once in her direction without needing to say anything. They had their own shorthand. Always had. And it didn't take much to say I see you. Glad you're here.
It was opening night. There was always a little buzz in her chest—part nerves, part pride. But it never lasted long. Not when the game started.
"Big energy tonight," someone said behind her.
She didn't turn around. She didn't have to.
"Always is," she replied.
Jalen Johnson stepped up beside her, smelling like fresh laundry and that cologne he always wore—subtle, expensive, almost sweet. He was still in warmups, bouncing lightly on his toes, a towel slung around his neck. His voice was low, easy. His eyes followed the movement on the court, but his body was leaned slightly toward her.
"You look serious," he said.
"I'm working."
"You're standing."
"Same thing."
He grinned, teeth flashing just slightly. "You gonna wish me luck, or...?"
She looked at him. Just once. Just enough. "Don't miss layups."
He laughed. "Cold."
"I'm supportive. In my own way."
"I like your way."
She shook her head, amused. This was their rhythm—dry, unspoken, maybe a little too comfortable. He bumped her arm with his lightly before jogging toward the bench, leaving her with the scent of whatever he'd sprayed on and the echo of his voice still hanging in her ear.
The anthem played. The lights dropped. And when the arena erupted, she felt it all over again—that spark in her chest, the one that came from being here.
Not because of the fame. Not even because of Trae.
But because basketball was in her blood.
She made her way to her usual spot—second row behind the bench, close enough to catch the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the under-the-breath trash talk that didn't make it onto the broadcast.
The introductions hit hard, as always.
The arena pulsed with bass, lights flashing in sync with the music, fans on their feet like they were waiting for something more than just a basketball game.
Theresa barely looked up when the Hawks starters were announced. She didn't need to. She knew every name, every movement, every moment before it happened.
Trae's name got the loudest cheer, as it always did. His signature wave to the crowd, the walk to center court, the half-smile that barely reached his eyes—that was all familiar.
He'd never say it, but she could tell how much weight opening night carried for him. How every year he shouldered more expectations, more pressure, more eyes.
But he never showed it when it counted.
The game tipped off clean. Atlanta controlled early. Trae moved like he'd never left the floor from last season, directing traffic with his eyes, his shoulders, his wrists. Smooth. Efficient.
Theresa watched him like she always did—analytical, proud, a little protective.
The first timeout came fast, and she stood without thinking, slipping behind the bench with a water bottle in hand for one of the assistants. She didn't have to do that anymore, not really, but old habits didn't die easily. Especially not here.
Jalen dropped onto the bench near Trae, towel draped over his neck, breath even, eyes scanning the scoreboard.
And when Theresa passed behind him on her way back to her seat, his fingers brushed her hip just lightly—like it was nothing. She didn't stop walking. Didn't look back or say anything. But she noticed.
The game stayed tight. The opponent wasn't a throwaway team. They weren't the Wizards, but they weren't soft either. A lot of ball movement. Pressure on the perimeter. A few dumb turnovers on Atlanta's side.
Trae sunk a three just before the shot clock expired, the crowd exploding around them. Theresa clapped, calm but proud. She never cheered the loudest, but he always knew she was there. That mattered more.
At halftime, Theresa slipped out of the bowl and into the tunnel, answering a couple texts and confirming content deliverables for the team's social lead. Nothing urgent. Nothing unexpected.
Serena texted her twice.
Serena: You better be courtside with that blazer.
Serena: Tell Jalen to hit his free throws pls.
Theresa didn't reply. But her lips curved just barely.
When she returned to the arena, the energy had shifted. The third quarter was starting to crackle. Both benches louder. Coaches barking more. Fans standing longer.
She sat again—tension low in her shoulders, but never gone.
Jalen had picked up speed. He was quick tonight. Confident. Maybe it was opening night adrenaline. Maybe it was something else.
When he hit a contested three from the corner, the crowd surged to its feet. And his eyes found Theresa's for just half a second. He didn't smile. Didn't gesture. But the look was there. Like he wanted her to have seen it.
She had. She didn't react. But he knew.
The game moved fast. The team looked sharp. There were still wrinkles to iron out, but it was a strong start—and the crowd knew it. When the fourth quarter came, everyone was on their feet, energy electric.
Theresa stayed seated. She didn't need to stand to feel the pulse of the court. It was already under her skin.
The final five minutes moved like they were stuck in quicksand.
Every possession felt heavier. Every shot came with a roar or a groan. The lead flipped twice before Atlanta locked back in with a full-court press and a run that snapped the tension in the arena like a rubber band.
Trae took over with under three minutes to go—quick pull-up from deep, a drive that drew two defenders and left the lane wide open for a dish to Jalen, who finished clean at the rim.
The bench erupted. So did the crowd.
Theresa didn't move. Just watched.
She knew what Trae looked like when he flipped the switch. She could see it in his shoulders, in the way he moved without hesitation, like the game had slowed down for him and him alone. She wasn't surprised when he iced it with a step-back three on the next trip down the floor. That was just what he did.
After the final buzzer, the Hawks walked away with the win. Nothing flashy. Just clean, smart basketball—the kind of start that set the tone for everything to come.
The scoreboard glowed red and clean: ATL 112 - BKN 105
Opening night: won.
She stood when the bench cleared.
High fives. Towels tossed. Shoulder slaps all around.
She didn't push toward the tunnel right away. She waited. Watched.
Jalen dapped up the other team, pulled off his jersey halfway, and ran a towel through his curls. He looked up once, scanning the stands like he was trying to catch someone's eye.
It might've been hers. She wasn't sure.
Trae jogged off court and into the tunnel with a few players behind him, already shaking his head at something one of the coaches said.
Theresa followed a beat later, slipping into the familiar postgame chaos like it was muscle memory—clipboards, camera flashes, the soft buzz of interviews starting just outside the locker room.
She leaned against the wall near the back door, phone in hand, answering a message from one of the team's digital guys.
"Quiet back there," a voice said beside her.
She glanced up. Jalen.
He was still in half-uniform, towel slung around his shoulders, expression relaxed.
"You get your win," she said.
He nodded. "You see that corner three?"
"I'm not blind."
He smiled. "Didn't say you were."
The look between them lingered—short, nothing heavy.
From down the hall, someone called out his name—trainer probably. Jalen gave her a final look before jogging off.
She didn't follow. Didn't move. She waited a little longer. Then tucked her phone away and headed toward the locker room. Trae would want to see her. And she wanted to make sure he was good—even if she already knew he was.
The locker room smelled like sweat, disinfectant, and something vaguely citrusy from the team's new postgame spray. Not unpleasant—just familiar.
Theresa slipped inside without knocking. She didn't have to. Most of the players barely looked up. She was part of the routine, just like tape, towels, and postgame stats.
Trae was still in his uniform, though his jersey was tossed on the bench next to him. He was leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scrolling through something on his phone.
"Don't say it," he muttered as soon as he noticed her.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to say 'good game,' but now I'm reconsidering."
Trae grinned without looking up. "You always wait until I win to be nice."
"You always wait until the fourth quarter to show up."
He looked over at her then, fully. "Still here, though."
"Barely."
"Still counts."
She smiled, just barely. Crossed her arms and leaned against the nearest wall.
"Seriously, though," she said, softer. "You looked sharp."
He nodded once. "Felt good. First ones always weird. Everyone's too keyed up."
"You didn't look keyed up."
"Didn't want to give you the satisfaction."
Theresa rolled her eyes. "You're welcome."
There was a pause then. Comfortable.
Trae looked back down at his phone. "You going to the team thing later?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether I want to sit through two hours of guys quoting themselves and eating wings like they invented seasoning."
He laughed. "That's a yes."
Theresa shrugged. "We'll see."
"Bring Serena. They like her more than they like you."
"She tips better."
"You don't tip at team events."
"She still does."
He shook his head, but the smile lingered.
Theresa stayed for another few minutes, long enough to see him settle, to make sure the trainers weren't swarming him for anything other than routine. Then she dipped out quietly. No announcement. No goodbyes. Just the usual path out of the arena, hoodie pulled up, bag over her shoulder, head down against the cool night air.
The postgame buzz hadn't worn off yet.
Even an hour later, the team hang had that low hum of energy—music low, food stacked high, players spread out across the space like they were still on the court, half trash talk, half celebration. It wasn't a formal event. More like a ritual. Wings, drinks, replay highlights on loop, and the occasional toast that never made it more than halfway through before someone cracked a joke.
Theresa stepped inside without much fanfare, Serena at her side, both of them ditching their coats near the front and sliding into the rhythm of the night.
"Alright, alright," Serena said, eyeing the spread. "This is what I came for. Don't talk to me unless it's about lemon pepper or honey hot."
Theresa smiled. "Trae said you're more liked than I am."
"Because I am. You're mean to them."
"They're grown men."
"They're sensitive."
Serena peeled off toward the food, already waving to a couple players on the way. Theresa hung back for a second. The room was bright but relaxed, players dressed down in hoodies, joggers, chains. Coaches lingered by the bar. A few girlfriends and family members were scattered throughout. It was loud, but not chaotic.
Jalen was across the room. Different hoodie. Same towel around his shoulders like he hadn't noticed it was still there. He was leaning against the wall, drink in hand, laughing at something someone said. He looked relaxed. Confident in that way that never really turned off. He didn't see her yet.
Theresa slipped toward a quieter corner of the room, just outside the halo of the main group. She wasn't trying to avoid him—not really. But she didn't want to hover either.
Trae passed her on his way toward the drinks table. "You came."
"I owed you one."
"You owe me a lot of things," he called over his shoulder.
She rolled her eyes and grabbed a ginger ale.
For a while, she just observed. The guys were loud—predictably. Someone was reliving a missed dunk like it was a war story. Another was playing DJ, skipping songs too early. Coaches were arguing about football. It was the same as always, which made it easy to disappear into.
Until Jalen broke from the group and made his way over.
"You're really not gonna say anything about that pass I dropped to Dee in the third?"
Theresa didn't look up from her drink. "Did it go in?"
"Obviously."
"Then I don't care."
He chuckled. "Tough crowd."
She glanced at him then—quick, unreadable. "You were good tonight."
"You say that like it hurts."
"A little."
Jalen leaned beside her, one shoulder brushing the wall, just close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. Not touching. But aware.
"You bring Serena to protect you?" he asked.
"She's here for the wings."
"Smart."
They didn't say anything for a beat. The sounds of the party carried on around them, muffled just slightly by the corner they'd found.
"You know," he said, low, "I didn't expect you to come."
"Why not?"
"You don't usually show unless Trae asks."
She shrugged. "He did."
"But that's not why you came."
She didn't answer. She didn't look at him either.
He waited. Then said, almost gently, "I like having you here."
That made her turn. Just slightly. Just enough to see if he meant it.
But by then, he was already pushing off the wall, stepping back into the fray with a wink and a throwaway: "Don't go ghost on me."
Theresa watched him go, expression unreadable. He blended back into the room, sliding into a conversation like nothing had just passed between them.
That was the thing about Jalen—he had a way of leaving you thinking about something he'd already stopped thinking about.
Theresa stayed in her corner, drink in hand, heartbeat steady. Maybe too steady.
"You good?" Serena appeared with a plate stacked dangerously high and an arched brow that said she'd noticed everything.
"Yeah."
"Uh huh." She leaned against the wall beside her. "You and Jalen doing your little almost-a-thing again?"
Theresa didn't answer.
Serena popped a wing in her mouth, chewed, then spoke with her mouth half-full. "You know you're too smart for that, right?"
Theresa's eyes didn't move. "For what?"
"That whole... slow-motion, barely-there, friends-but-not-really, I-saw-you-look-at-me-so-I-might-text-you vibe y'all do."
"It's not like that."
Serena gave her a look.
Theresa exhaled. "Okay. Sometimes it's like that."
"Girl."
"It's not serious."
"Exactly my point."
Theresa didn't say anything. Didn't have to. Serena bumped her shoulder lightly.
"You want it to be, though."
Theresa looked away. That was enough of an answer.
Serena didn't push. She just finished her wing, wiped her fingers, and nudged Theresa's arm with her elbow.
"I like you better when you're delusional over NBA boys with actual intentions."
"Wow."
"I'm just saying."
Theresa cracked a smile despite herself. "You're a menace."
"You're lucky I'm pretty."
A few minutes passed in easy silence. The team crowd was starting to thin a little—some of the guys dipping early, others settling into the kind of late-night pacing that meant it'd be hours before they left. Theresa finished her drink, set the cup down on a nearby ledge.
She didn't know why she stayed longer. She wasn't waiting for anything. Wasn't hoping. But when Jalen glanced over again, when his eyes caught hers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary—she felt that little pulse again.
Eventually, the party started to lose its edge.
The music dipped. Conversations mellowed. A few players peeled off, tossing casual goodbyes over their shoulders. The energy was still there, but it had settled into something softer—familiar and forgettable.
Serena had dipped twenty minutes ago with a dramatic yawn and a kiss on the cheek. Trae had vanished not long after, pulled into some postgame recovery schedule he swore he hated but never skipped.
Theresa stayed a little longer than she meant to. She could've left. Probably should've. But she stood in the corner for a while, watching the room wind down, letting the weight of the night catch up with her.
That's where Jalen found her. Again.
"You've been real quiet tonight," he said.
"I'm always quiet."
"Not with me."
She glanced at him. "Maybe I'm evolving."
He smiled like he didn't believe her. "You thinking about heading out?"
"I should."
"But you won't."
She didn't respond.
He moved a little closer, slow. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Just enough that she felt it.
"You waiting for something?"
"No."
"Someone?"
She looked at him. "You fishing for something, Jalen?"
He shrugged, eyes steady. "Just asking."
"You always ask when you already know the answer."
"I like hearing you say it anyway."
That made her pause. Not because she didn't have something to say back—but because for once, she didn't want to say the wrong thing. And that was new. That wasn't part of their game.
But the moment was short lived, his attention occupied with something else already, and she slipped out quietly—no drawn-out goodbyes, no lingering looks. Just keys in hand, wind in her hair, and the ache of too much noise in her head. She drove home in silence. No music. Just the hum of the tires and the low buzz of thoughts she wasn't quite ready to name.
By the time she reached her apartment, the adrenaline had worn off. The win had settled into memory. The lights of State Farm Arena were long behind her. She didn't text anyone goodnight. She didn't check if anyone had texted her.
She just showered, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes longer than she meant to. The room was still. Too still.
The kind of quiet that only felt loud when you didn't know what you were supposed to be thinking about.
She tried to focus on the win. On how good Trae had looked. On how sharp the team seemed out the gate. On how the campaign rollout next week would need her full attention.
She exhaled slowly, rolled onto her side, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
The silence didn't bother her. She was used to it by now. Used to the soft hum of nothing, to the way the city dulled itself by midnight. Used to nights that didn't feel empty, just... open.
She listened to the wind slip through the cracks in her window. The hum of her fridge. A car passing below. Everything was quiet. Everything was fine.
And the season had started.