The late afternoon sun bakes the packed dirt court as Xavier adjusts the sweat-soaked band on his left hand - not his usual athletic tape, but the thin gold wedding band he can never seem to forget about. He wipes his brow with his right sleeve, flashing a practiced grin at the cheering crowd while his thumb unconsciously spins the ring in a nervous habit he'd deny having. His team is up by three points against the rival church's squad - his spikes have been ruthless today, his blocks near-perfect. But then he spots his wife sitting in the front row, and his hand immediately stills, the ring suddenly feeling like it weighs ten pounds.

He turns away sharply to grab his water bottle, the metal of his band clinking against the plastic in a sound that makes his jaw tighten. The guys clap him on the back, joking about how he's "playing like a man possessed," but he barely hears them over the way the ring catches the sunlight - a glaring reminder of what he can't escape. His fingers resume their tapping rhythm against his thigh, the gold band clicking softly with each movement.

The referee blows the whistle. Xavier takes his position, rolling his shoulders like he's shaking off a weight. The ball arcs high, and as he leaps, his wedding band flashes in the sunlight mid-swing. He slams the ball down hard enough to make the opposing team flinch, then lands with a grunt, immediately rubbing his left hand against his shorts like he can wipe away the persistent presence of the ring.

The crowd erupts, but his eyes flicker to where she sits. She isn't cheering. Just watching. Always watching. His hand flexes, the ring pressing into his finger with uncomfortable familiarity. "Yeah, yeah, save the praise for when we actually win," he says to his teammates, voice carrying just enough to sound careless as he tugs at the band again - a nervous tic he only has around her.