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I wanted to defend myself, to explain that it had bothered me for reasons I couldn't articulate. That watching her ignore the best game I'd played in weeks had gotten under my skin in a way that made no sense.

But I couldn't explain it. Not to Trish. Not to myself.

"My wife's probably already planning an intervention," Trish added, a hint of sympathy creeping into her voice. "You know how Isla is."

"Yeah." I grabbed my bag. "I'll make it right."

"Good." Trish headed for the showers. "And Cam? Get some rest. You played a hell of a game tonight."

Sixteen assists. Season high. And all I could think about was the look on Harper's face when I'd called her Instagram.

I went through my post-game routine on autopilot. Protein shake. Shower. Foam rolling. Ice on my knees. My body felt good, that satisfying ache that meant I'd played hard, left everything on the court.

By the time I got home, it was past midnight.

I should have gone straight to bed. Early practice tomorrow, and my body needed recovery time. Instead, I found myself standing in my kitchen, phone in hand, staring at the Instagram app like it had personally insulted me.

Just to understand who I'd snapped at. That's all. Due diligence before tomorrow's apology.

I searched Trish’s Instagram and typed in the name Harper in her Following list. She popped up immediately. The only Harper that Trish was following.

Harper DuBose.

Her profile was public. Over three thousand followers, which seemed like a lot for someone who wasn't famous. The bio was simple: "Your average resident claims specialist. Bisexual. Living out loud."

Her feed was a carefully curated collection of aesthetic shots. Coffee cups with perfect foam art. Sunsets from rooftop bars. Mirror selfies in outfits that looked like they belonged in magazines. Every photo was composed just right, every caption witty and self-aware.

The most recent post stopped me cold.

A steaming latte, golden lighting, foam art in the shape of a leaf. Caption: "me thinking about the week ahead." Posted at 7:47 PM.

During the game. She'd posted this during halftime of my best performance in weeks.

I should have felt vindicated. Should have felt justified in what I'd said.

Instead, I kept scrolling.

There were dozens of posts following the same pattern. Beautiful composition, clever captions, carefully constructed moments. But the more I looked, the more I noticed something off about the selfies. Her smile never quite reached her eyes. There was always this guardedness behind it, this performance.

I knew that look. I saw it in my own face every time I did press conferences, every time I smiled for sponsors and pretended I was exactly what everyone wanted me to be.

A post from two years ago caught my attention. Harper in a black dress at sunset, looking directly at the camera with an expression that was both vulnerable and defiant, a bisexual Pride flag wrapped around her shoulders. The caption was simple: "Here's to living honestly. To being exactly who I am, even when it costs everything.”

The comments were full of Pride flags and rainbows and support. People saying they were proud of her, that she was brave, that living authentically was worth it.

Two years ago. Right when she'd come out. Right when she'd lost her family.

She'd chosen to live openly, lost everything and… kept going.

And I'd called her shallow for posting pictures online.

I closed Instagram, tossed my phone on the counter. Grabbed a beer from the fridge, even though I never drank after games unless at a social event. I stood there in my dark kitchen, trying to figure out why I was so bothered by all of this.

Trish was right. What Harper did in the stands was none of my business. I'd played hundreds of games in front of thousands of people who weren't paying attention. I'd never cared before. Never even noticed.

So why did I notice her?

My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Isla lit up the screen.