Ren Nakamura

The roar of TD Garden was deafening, but Ren had learned long ago how to filter it out. Twenty thousand fans screaming, the squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood, the thunderous echo of the ball—it all became white noise when he stepped onto that court. But there was one sound, one voice, that always cut through the chaos like a beacon: theirs. Ren didn't need to look up into the stands to know exactly where they were sitting. Section 112, row 5, seat 8. The same seat they'd occupied for every home game this season, wearing his jersey—number 23—with a pride that made his chest swell every single time. Even now, as he dribbled the ball down the court with the Celtics up by six and only forty-three seconds left on the clock, he could hear them cheering his name. "Let's go, Ren!" A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though he kept his game face on. Coach would kill him if he got distracted now, not when they were this close to clinching the win against the Lakers. This game meant everything—not just because it was a crucial conference matchup, but because they were here. They were always here. Ren passed the ball to Jaylen, cutting toward the basket as the defense collapsed. The return pass came right on time, and he elevated, releasing the ball with the kind of muscle memory that came from ten thousand hours in the gym. Swish. The crowd exploded, and somewhere in that sea of green and white, he knew they were jumping up and down, screaming their head off. Three years. That's how long they'd been together, how long they'd been his anchor in the absolute whirlwind that was professional basketball. While everyone else in his life came and went—teammates traded, coaches fired, sponsors signing and dropping—they remained constant. They'd been there when he was drafted, nervous and young and convinced he'd mess it all up. They'd been there through the injuries, the losses, the nights when he questioned if he was good enough to make it in this league. And they'd been there for every victory, every milestone, every moment worth celebrating. The Lakers inbounded the ball, but the game was essentially over. Ren's heart was hammering—not from exertion, but from what he knew was coming. What he'd been planning for three months. What was currently sitting in a small velvet box in his locker, waiting. The final buzzer sounded. Celtics 118, Lakers 109. The arena erupted into pure pandemonium. His teammates rushed toward him, and Ren accepted their embraces, their celebrations, but his eyes were already scanning the crowd. They were supposed to meet him after the game like always, wait for him by the tunnel after he'd done his media obligations. That was the plan. That was the routine. Except they weren't following the routine. Ren caught sight of them vaulting over the seat in front of them with absolutely zero regard for dignity or decorum, security guards scrambling as they pushed through the crowd at the edge of the court. His publicist was going to have a fit. The team's PR manager would probably have an aneurysm. Ren couldn't have cared less. They broke free from the throng of fans pressing against the barriers, security making a half-hearted attempt to stop them before recognizing who they were. Everyone in this arena knew who they were. Ren's plus-one. His constant. His everything. Their face was flushed with excitement, eyes bright with joy and pride, and they were running straight at him full speed. Ren barely had time to brace himself before they launched themselves into his arms, and he caught them easily—he'd always catch them—spinning them around as their laughter mixed with the deafening cheers still echoing through the Garden. "You were incredible!" they shouted over the noise, arms wrapped tight around his neck. "That last three-pointer? Are you kidding me? You're insane!" Ren set them down gently, but kept his hands on their waist, anchoring them in place. His heart was racing faster than it had during any moment of the game. This was it. This was the moment he'd been rehearsing in his head for weeks, the moment he'd discussed with his mom and his sister and even his coach (who'd rolled his eyes and told him he was a lovesick idiot, but said it with a smile). The stadium was still roaring, his teammates gathering around them, phones out and recording. Someone—probably Marcus—was definitely live-streaming this. Perfect. "Hey," Ren said, and even though the arena was chaos incarnate, they heard him. They always heard him. "I need to ask you something." They tilted their head, confused, still riding the high of the victory. "What? Now? Ren, you just won! We should be celebrating—" But they stopped talking the moment Ren dropped to one knee. The crowd, somehow, impossibly, got even louder. Or maybe it got quieter. Ren honestly couldn't tell anymore because all he could see was them, the way their expression shifted from confusion to shock, as realization crashed over them like a wave. Ren pulled the small velvet box from where he'd tucked it in his waistband—thank god for compression shorts—and opened it to reveal the ring he'd spent embarrassing amounts of time choosing. Simple, elegant, with a stone that caught the light in the same way their eyes did when they laughed. "Three years ago, you showed up to my first Celtics game with a sign that said 'Ren is my favorite rookie' even though you'd only known me for like two months," Ren said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the fact that his hands were shaking. "You've been at every game since. Every single one. Home, away, playoffs, preseason—it doesn't matter. You're there. You're always there." Ren felt his eyes getting misty, which was ridiculous because he was Ren fucking Nakamura, he'd played through a separated shoulder and a high ankle sprain, he didn't cry. "You make me better. Not just as a player, but as a person. You make me want to be better. And I know this is probably the worst possible timing, I'm sweaty and gross and there's like twenty thousand people watching, but I couldn't wait another second. I don't want to wait another second." He took a breath, steadying himself. "Will you marry me?"