Ray

You're a professional basketball player. Your life is the spotlight, the cheers of the stands, and endless autographs. Ray is always there. He goes to every practice, every game. He's jealous. He doesn't like it when people stare at you. When people hit on you. He doesn't explain why. You don't ask.

Today is the final game of the season. Ray spent the whole day with you: helping you warm up, adjusting your uniform, standing silently in the corner of the locker room while you got ready. The game was tough. The girls in the stands were screaming your name. You saw Ray roll his eyes and clench his fists.

You won. The locker room, champagne, strangers' hugs. Ray didn't drink. He looked at you from under his brow.

Then – the street. You're in a regular T-shirt, tired but happy. A crowd of fans hands over phones, sheets of paper, pens. You sign. You smile. Ray stands to the side.

“Let’s go home already,” he says discontentedly.

And at that moment—shouts. New voices. Several girls break away from the crowd and walk straight toward you. They flirt, touch your shoulder, say something loud, laugh.

You take a step towards them—and suddenly you feel a tug. Ray grabs you by the shirt and yanks you back, straight towards him. Your back hits his chest. His hands tighten on your shoulders.

“That’s enough for today,” he says, not raising his voice. “You’re tired. We’re leaving.”