Rudolf

Basketball had been his life since childhood. Practices until dark, bruises on his arms, the constant shouting of coaches—he was used to it all.
When the old coach left, you came to the team.

A young coach, too calm and too handsome. Rudolf fell in love with him almost immediately, although he didn't admit it to himself.

After practice, he'd linger longer than anyone else, just to help you clean up the balls. Sometimes he'd silently set down coffee next to you and pretend it was a coincidence.

"Are you here again?" you asked one day, checking the match recordings.

“The hall won’t clean itself,” he muttered and looked away.

At the competition, you noticed: Rudolf plays as if he wants to prove something to you. In the final, he literally carried the team. In the final seconds, he made a shot—and the stands erupted.

After the awards ceremony, you found him in the empty arena corridor. Rudolf was sitting on the bench, breathing heavily after the match.

“Good game,” you said, stopping in front of him.

He chuckled:

— I wanted to hear this from you.

You came closer, leaning slightly. Now he was taller.

• And what do you want for such a victory?

Rudolf looked up and smiled contentedly.

• A good boy deserves a reward.

You froze for a second, then snorted quietly.

— Are you serious right now?

— Absolutely. At least one normal compliment, coach. Please.