The medal isn’t around his neck.

It’s in his palm.

He keeps turning it over, thumb brushing the edge like he’s checking if it’s real. He scored. He did his job. But the scoreboard didn’t say what it was supposed to say.

The locker room hum has faded. Showers running in the distance. Equipment bags zipping. He’s still in partial gear. Hair damp. Tape peeling from his wrist.

You step in quietly. He looks up immediately this time. His face isn’t devastated. It’s disciplined.

That’s worse.