Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~13 min read
Chapter 28: Going Public
POV: Carter Vaughn
The conversation happens three days after the hospital reconciliation—Carter’s shoulder improving with rest and Priya’s careful PT, the two of them existing in a happy bubble of reunion that involves a lot of stolen kisses and quiet nights at each other’s apartments and the kind of domestic bliss Carter didn’t know he was capable of feeling—when Priya brings up the question that’s been hovering unspoken between them since they decided to try again.
“We should tell people,” Priya says over breakfast at her apartment, Iris having already left for work and giving them privacy that feels simultaneously comfortable and novel given how new this official relationship status is. “The team. Our friends. Make it public instead of sneaking around.”
Carter looks up from his coffee—the same order Priya memorized and now makes perfectly every morning—and processes the suggestion, the implications, what going public means practically and emotionally.
“You want to tell the team?” Carter asks, wanting to make sure he understands correctly. “Announce it officially?”
“They already know something’s going on,” Priya points out practically. “Or at least suspect. And I don’t want to hide this. Don’t want to pretend we’re just professional when I’m your girlfriend. Seems dishonest.”
The casual way she says “girlfriend” makes Carter’s chest warm—she’s his girlfriend, they’re together officially, she’s not hiding or ashamed or worried about the professional implications—and he reaches across the table to take her hand, threading their fingers together in a gesture that’s becoming familiar again.
“I want that too,” Carter says honestly. “Want everyone to know you’re mine. Want to be able to kiss you at the facility without worrying who sees. Want the team to understand that you’re off-limits because you’re taken.”
“Possessive,” Priya observes with amusement, but she’s smiling, clearly not actually bothered by Carter’s territorial instincts when they’re coming from security rather than jealous fear.
“About you? Absolutely,” Carter confirms without shame. “But Pri, are you sure? Once we tell the team it becomes official. Professional boundaries get complicated. People will have opinions.”
“Let them have opinions,” Priya says firmly. “I’m not hiding this. Not hiding you. We’re together and I want people to know it.”
The confidence in her voice makes Carter fall a little more in love—she’s not scared of going public, not worried about professional judgment, just wants to claim their relationship openly and honestly—and he knows that this is what healthy relationships look like, what confidence in each other produces, what happens when fear doesn’t control decisions.
“Okay,” Carter agrees. “We’ll tell them. I’ll announce it at the team meeting tomorrow. Make it official.”
“You don’t have to announce it,” Priya says quickly. “We could just—let people figure it out naturally.”
“No,” Carter says firmly. “I want to announce it. Want everyone to know explicitly that you’re my girlfriend. Want there to be zero ambiguity about us.”
Priya’s smile goes soft—clearly touched by his certainty, by his willingness to claim her publicly without hesitation—and she squeezes his hand across the table with the kind of affection that makes Carter grateful every day that she gave him another chance.
The team meeting is scheduled for ten AM the next morning—routine check-in before practice, the kind of regular gathering where announcements get made and team business gets handled—and Carter spends the hours leading up to it trying to figure out exactly what he wants to say, how to frame this announcement, whether to make it casual or formal or something in between.
“Just be honest,” Priya advises when Carter admits his anxiety about the announcement. “Tell them we’re together. Don’t overthink it.”
So Carter doesn’t overthink it—just shows up to the meeting with Priya beside him, both of them arriving together in a way that probably already telegraphs the announcement before Carter says anything, both of them settling into seats at the front of the room where the whole team can see them—and when Coach Williams calls the meeting to order and asks if anyone has announcements before they cover team business, Carter stands.
“I have something,” Carter says, his voice carrying the authority of captaincy even though this announcement is personal rather than professional. “Personal announcement, but relevant to team dynamics.”
The room goes quiet—all eyes on Carter, clearly curious about what their captain considers important enough to address formally—and Carter sees Jamie grinning like he knows exactly what’s coming, sees several other players exchanging knowing looks, sees that half the team has apparently been waiting for this announcement.
Priya’s sitting in the front row—technically she’s here in her professional capacity as PT staff, but her presence beside Carter makes the announcement obvious before he says anything—and when their eyes meet she gives him an encouraging nod, permission to make this official, support for whatever he’s about to say.
“Priya and I are together,” Carter says simply, deciding directness is better than elaborate explanation. “Dating. In a relationship. If anyone has a problem—”
“FINALLY!” Jamie interrupts loudly, jumping out of his seat with his arms raised like his team just won the championship, his enthusiasm so over-the-top that several players laugh and the tension Carter didn’t realize he was carrying dissolves into amusement.
The team erupts in cheers—genuine celebration rather than awkward acknowledgment, players whistling and clapping and clearly thrilled rather than concerned about the professional implications—and Carter realizes they all knew, they’ve all been watching this slow-burn reconciliation, they’ve all been rooting for Carter and Priya to figure their shit out.
“About damn time,” Tyler calls out from the back. “We’ve been watching you two dance around each other for months!”
“Literally months,” Marcus agrees. “Since training camp when you couldn’t stop staring at her.”
“I wasn’t staring—” Carter starts to defend, but multiple players shout him down with evidence of exactly how much staring he’s been doing, how obvious his feelings were, how painful it’s been watching them maintain professional distance when everyone knew they were in love.
“You were absolutely staring,” Jamie says with authority. “Every game. Every practice. Like a lovesick puppy. It was pathetic and adorable.”
Priya’s laughing—clearly embarrassed by the attention but also happy, clearly enjoying the team’s enthusiasm even though she’s covering her face with her hands like she can hide from the spotlight—and Carter reaches down to pull her to her feet beside him, tucking her against his good side with the kind of casual possessiveness that makes several teammates whistle appreciatively.
“So we’re good?” Carter asks the room, wanting explicit confirmation that the team supports this. “No one has concerns about professionalism or conflicts of interest?”
“Cap, we’re thrilled,” Jamie says, speaking for the group. “You’ve been miserable. She’s been miserable. Now you’re together and happy and that’s good for team morale.”
“Plus she’s amazing at her job,” Tyler adds. “And clearly makes you play better. Win-win.”
Coach Williams clears his throat from where he’s been watching this chaos with amused tolerance—clearly aware this announcement was coming, clearly having opinions about team dynamics and professional boundaries that need addressing—and the room quiets down as everyone waits for official coaching perspective.
“I assume this relationship won’t affect either of your professional performance,” Coach says, his tone making it clear this is expectation rather than question.
“It won’t,” Priya confirms quickly, her professional voice reasserting itself despite the celebratory atmosphere. “I’ll maintain objectivity in treatment decisions. Won’t give Carter preferential treatment or let personal feelings compromise medical judgment.”
“And your performance on the ice?” Coach asks Carter directly.
“It’ll improve my performance,” Carter says with absolute certainty, the declaration coming without hesitation. “She’s my good luck charm.”
The team cheers again—clearly delighted by Carter’s uncharacteristic romanticism, clearly thrilled to see their captain openly in love rather than emotionally locked down—and Priya turns even redder, clearly mortified and pleased in equal measure by being called Carter’s good luck charm in front of the entire team.
“Alright then,” Coach says with satisfaction. “Congratulations to both of you. Now can we get back to actual team business before you all lose your minds?”
The meeting continues with standard announcements—schedule updates, strategy discussions, injury reports—but the energy has shifted, has become lighter and more celebratory, the team clearly energized by Carter and Priya’s official relationship in ways that prove Jamie right about team morale.
Practice afterward is excellent—Carter plays with the kind of freedom and joy that comes from not hiding, from having claimed Priya publicly, from knowing everyone supports them—and his performance is noticeably improved despite the lingering shoulder strain, his movements fluid and confident in ways that prove the relationship really does help rather than hurt his game.
“You’re playing better,” Coach observes afterward, pulling Carter aside. “Haven’t seen you this loose on the ice in months.”
“Being happy helps,” Carter says simply, the explanation requiring no elaboration.
“Then stay happy,” Coach says practically. “But Vaughn, if this relationship causes problems—if it affects team dynamics or creates conflicts of interest or becomes a distraction—we’ll need to address it.”
“It won’t,” Carter promises, meaning it absolutely. “We’re both professionals. Both committed to doing our jobs well. The relationship makes us better, not worse.”
Coach nods acceptance—clearly trusting Carter’s judgment, clearly willing to support the relationship as long as it doesn’t negatively impact the team—and Carter feels gratitude for working with someone who understands that players are human, that love doesn’t have to be compartmentalized from professional life, that happiness contributes to performance rather than detracting from it.
Priya’s waiting outside the locker room when Carter emerges after showering—her presence there openly rather than hidden, clearly comfortable being seen as his girlfriend rather than just team PT—and when Carter sees her his face splits into a grin that feels impossible to suppress.
“Hey, good luck charm,” Carter says, the teasing gentle, referencing his earlier declaration.
“Oh my god, don’t,” Priya groans, but she’s smiling, clearly not actually mad about the nickname. “That was so embarrassing.”
“That was true,” Carter corrects, pulling her into a hug despite being in public view of anyone who passes by. “You are my good luck charm. My everything.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Priya says into his chest, but her arms come around him, holding him close, clearly happy despite the embarrassment.
“Ridiculously in love with you,” Carter agrees shamelessly. “And now everyone knows it.”
They walk out of the facility together—hand in hand, openly affectionate, no longer hiding or maintaining professional distance when off the clock—and Carter feels lighter than he has in months, feels the relief of not having to compartmentalize his feelings, feels grateful that going public means he gets to claim Priya openly rather than pretending she’s not the most important person in his life.
“That went well,” Priya observes as they reach the parking lot. “The team seemed genuinely happy for us.”
“They’ve been watching us suffer for months,” Carter points out. “Of course they’re happy we finally got our shit together.”
“Your shit,” Priya corrects. “I had my shit together. You’re the one who needed eight months of therapy.”
“Fair,” Carter acknowledges without defensiveness, because it’s true, because owning his growth is part of maintaining it. “But now my shit is together. And we’re together. And everyone knows it.”
“Public and official,” Priya says, testing how the words feel. “No more hiding.”
“No more hiding,” Carter confirms, and kisses her right there in the parking lot where anyone could see, where his teammates probably are seeing, where there’s zero ambiguity about their relationship status or his feelings for her.
The kiss is sweet and slightly performative—both of them aware they have an audience, both of them leaning into the public nature of their relationship after months of secrecy—but it’s also genuine, also full of love and relief and the joy of finally, actually being together without barriers.
When they break apart, Jamie’s standing a few cars away with his phone out, clearly having photographed the kiss, clearly planning to use it for future teasing purposes.
“That’s going in the team group chat,” Jamie announces gleefully. “Cap’s officially whipped.”
“Damn right I am,” Carter says without shame, keeping his arm around Priya. “And happy about it.”
“Good,” Jamie says, his teasing shifting to genuine warmth. “You deserve this, man. Both of you deserve to be happy.”
The sentiment hits deeper than Jamie probably intended—acknowledgment that Carter’s done the work to deserve Priya, that their relationship is earned rather than just fortunate, that happiness is something achieved through growth rather than just stumbled into—and Carter nods gratitude for his friend’s support through all the difficult months.
They end up at Carter’s apartment that evening—Priya staying over is becoming routine, the domesticity of shared space and coordinated schedules and knowing where the other keeps their toothbrush feeling more right every day—and settle on the couch with takeout from Priya’s favorite Thai place and the comfortable silence of people who don’t need constant conversation to feel connected.
“I’m glad we told them,” Priya says eventually, her head on Carter’s shoulder, his good arm around her holding her close. “Feels better not hiding.”
“Agreed,” Carter says. “Plus now I can kiss you at work.”
“You absolutely cannot kiss me at work,” Priya corrects firmly. “We’re still professionals. Professional boundaries still exist.”
“After work then,” Carter amends. “In the parking lot. Where everyone can see that you’re mine.”
“Possessive,” Priya accuses again, but she’s smiling, clearly not actually bothered.
“About you? Always,” Carter confirms, and kisses her forehead with the kind of casual affection that’s becoming natural, that feels like home, that proves therapy worked and growth is real and love gets to win.
They fall asleep on the couch—Netflix playing unwatched in the background, tangled together in comfortable intimacy, both content in ways that come from not hiding, from being publicly together, from knowing that their relationship is official and supported and real—and Carter’s last thought before sleep is gratitude that Priya was brave enough to suggest going public, that the team was supportive enough to celebrate them, that he’s become someone capable of claiming love openly rather than hiding from it in fear.
Public and official.
No more hiding.
No more pretending she’s not everything.
Just Carter and Priya, together, loved and supported and finally, finally able to just be.
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