Mending Hearts (Chords & Courts #3)

Chapter 1

OLLIE

Envy’s a garbage emotion—useless, petty, and acidic. It doesn’t stop it from sliding under my skin anyway.

It sits somewhere between my ribs and my throat while I lean back in a lawn chair that’s one shift away from collapse, beer bottle sweating in my hand, watching Cassius flip burgers like he’s on a cooking show instead of in his backyard in the middle of Minnesota.

My smile is real. That’s the annoying part. I’m stupidly happy for him. For all of them, actually.

Cassius with his loud life and louder laugh, now someone’s husband, someone’s dad, somehow thriving in domestic chaos.

Dylan moving through the yard like he owns the place—because he does—kissing his husband in passing, swatting at kids who run too close to the grill, slipping into conversations with that easy confidence of a man who knows exactly where he belongs.

I love this for them. I just… don’t have it. And that’s where the envy crawls in, hooks its claws, and makes itself comfortable.

“There’s pizza in the pantry,” Dylan says under his breath as he drops into the chair beside me. “Still hot. In case you don’t trust Chef Cremation over there.”

I snort. “How’d you manage that without him noticing?”

Dylan grins, slow and secretive. “I have layers, Marshall.”

“Good to know.” I lift my beer toward him. “I might need an extraction plan in a few.”

We clink bottles and go back to watching the chaos.

A herd of kids have commandeered half the yard, playing some kind of lawless version of soccer that involves more tackling than actual footwork.

Half the dads are pretending to be annoyed while very obviously keeping one eye on the game like they’re trying to exchange the soccer ball for a basketball.

I’m surrounded by teammates and former teammates, by laughter and spouses and easy touches. Offseason softness. There are no cameras and no playbooks. Just sun and smoke and people who feel… settled.

“Hey, Marshall,” Jayden calls from the other side of the yard. “You still doing that thing in San Diego this summer?”

I glance over. Jayden’s perched on the arm of a picnic bench, Sutton leaning back between his knees like gravity works differently for them. Comfortable. Open. Unapologetic.

“Yeah,” I say. “Couple of weekends.”

Sutton’s eyes light up. “The camps?”

“The clinics,” I correct. “Camps implies sleeping bags and bug spray.”

Cassius wanders over, tongs still in hand. “What camps?” he asks. “You volunteering now, Captain?”

I huff. “Something like that.”

Jayden grins. “Don’t let him play it down. Ollie’s been quietly throwing money and time at this program for over a year now.”

Cassius looks between us. “Okay, now I’m offended that I don’t know about this.”

“It’s not exactly billboard material,” I say. “Yet.”

Sutton tilts his head. “You want it to be, though.”

I don’t deny it. “I want it to matter.”

Jayden nods, serious now. “It already does. You’re giving kids an opportunity, letting them know someone else cares about their futures.”

Cassius still looks lost. “Someone catch me up.”

“It’s basketball-based,” I say. “Though there’s legal support, education liaisons, after-school programs. We partner with community leagues—mostly kids from immigrant families.

A lot of them… their parents don’t have papers.

Or they’re dealing with active cases.” I take a breath.

“And this year I’m heading back to San Diego to try to expand the program. ”

Cassius’s brows knit. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Turns out you play better ball when you’re not worried about whether your mom’s going to get picked up on the way to work.”

The yard feels a little quieter around us. Not uncomfortable, just attentive.

There are pieces of the truth I still don’t say out loud.

How I read about deportations and family separations and think about Rafe’s family history.

The stories he told me late at night, curled against my chest, about the border crossings of some of his friends growing up and fear and luck and survival.

How loving him rewired my sense of what mattered.

“I invested last year,” I continue. “This offseason, I’m trying to raise the profile. Get more players involved. Sponsorships. Visibility.”

Cassius gestures at my face. “You’re literally visibility.”

“Only while I’m still playing,” I say.

That lands.

Jayden’s voice softens. “You thinking long-term?”

I nod. “I have to.”

Sutton reaches out, squeezes my knee once. Casual and supportive. “It’s good work, Ollie.”

“Yeah,” Cassius adds. “Important work.”

I clear my throat, buying a second. “It shouldn’t be controversial to want kids to feel safe.”

“No,” Jayden agrees. “But here we are.”

Sutton exhales through his nose. “My mom was eleven when she got here,” he says quietly. “Different paperwork. Same fear.”

No one argues with that.

The moment passes the way moments do at barbecues—Mikey yells about burgers, a kid trips, music swells again. Life reasserts itself.

But something has shifted.

I lean back into my chair, beer warm now, and stare at the yard full of people who know pieces of me but not the whole.

The charity isn’t just something I do. It’s proof—to myself, more than anyone—that even while I’ve been hiding, I haven’t been standing still.

Dylan bumps his knee against mine. “So, anything else happening this offseason?”

My shoulders stiffen before I can stop them. I force myself to stay loose, take a drink, and buy a second.

I haven’t told them officially yet, though I just came damn close to hinting.

Hell, I haven’t told most people a lot of things.

What I haven’t shared is that their captain is bone-tired.

That the noise of arenas feels different now—less like adrenaline and more like static.

That I’m already counting the days in seasons instead of games.

“I’m actually going to look at some properties in San Francisco,” I admit aloud for the first time. The words feel strange in my mouth. Heavy and real. They also feel safer saying them to a sheriff who has a talent for observation and is also not one of my teammates.

Dylan’s eyebrows go up. “No shit?”

“Yeah.”

“For vacation? Investment?”

“For now,” I say noncommittally.

He studies me for a beat too long. Dylan’s observant in a way that makes you feel like he’s reading the footnotes of your life, not just the headline. “You told the team yet?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head. “Not officially.” In truth, I need to keep it quiet from management, something that the guys know if I do end up spilling my guts.

He glances toward the group scattered around the yard. “They’re gonna freak.”

“They’ll adjust,” I say automatically. “They always do.”

He doesn’t call me on the way that sounds like I’m talking about myself.

Across the yard, Cassius nearly drops a tray of buns, and Jayden heckles him.

The kids erupt into a new round of screaming.

Someone turns the music up. I stare at it and think about San Francisco.

About fog rolling in over water. About streets where hopefully fewer people know my name.

About walking down a sidewalk without scanning every face, every phone, every lens.

About the idea—stupid, hopeful, fragile—that maybe there, someday, I could be… open. Not just “rumors in comment sections” open. Not “carefully worded press release” open. Just a man walking beside his husband.

A few years ago, when Ryan Broadwater came out, the news hit me like a punch to the chest. I’d been in my kitchen, half dressed, phone in my hand, reading the headline over and over like it might rearrange itself into something else. A starting player. Still active. Saying the words out loud.

I’d sat down hard at my counter.

My first thought wasn’t about the League, or the media, or what it meant for anyone else. It was Rafe. I’d wondered if he’d seen it yet. If he’d expected my call. If he’d been sitting somewhere, phone in hand, thinking this is it—this is when he does it too.

I’d stared at his contact for a long time, not even sure if he still had the same number. Then I’d locked my phone and done nothing.

Fear is a quiet thing. It doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it just ties your tongue to the roof of your mouth and convinces you that silence is survival.

When the news cycle moved on and I still hadn’t said anything—hadn’t done anything—I knew. Knew in that bone-deep, can’t-lie-to-yourself way that I’d lost him.

For years, one of the carrots I dangled in front of myself was Don’t be the first. Let someone else take the hit. Let the ground soften.

Then Ryan did.

And I still stayed quiet.

Retirement, I told myself. That’s the plan. Step out of the spotlight first. Make it easier. Cleaner.

Coward, a voice in my head had said.

A few weeks after Ryan, when Jayden and Sutton announced their engagement, my world tilted again.

Two teammates. Active. Happy. Loud about it. The locker room hadn’t exploded. The sky hadn’t fallen. Life… continued.

And still—I said nothing.

What I did do was call my therapist. I hadn’t been back in a while. I’d convinced myself I was “fine.” That compartmentalizing counted as coping.

Jayden and Sutton’s engagement cracked something open. Not jealousy—well, maybe a little—but something sharper. A realization that I was watching other people build lives I’d already chosen and then walked away from.

Therapy, it turns out, is less about being fixed and more about being honest. I learned that coming out isn’t some neat moral equation where bravery equals goodness and fear equals internalized self-hatred.

I don’t hate myself. I don’t hate being gay. I don’t love Rafe any less because I stayed quiet.

If anything, loving him was part of why I froze.

The stakes were too high. Too real. Too much to lose.

My therapist said something that stuck: “Avoidance can look like protection when you’re scared enough.”

That one hurt, because I wasn’t protecting him. I was protecting myself.

“Earth to Ollie.” Dylan snaps his fingers in front of my face. “You went somewhere.”

“Sorry,” I say, blinking back to the yard. “Long week.”

“Mm-hm.” He doesn’t buy it, but he lets it go. “So. San Francisco. That’s random as hell.”

“California’s a draw,” I say, which is true. “And… it feels like a place you can just be.”

He watches me carefully. “You planning to stay there long-term?”

I look down at the label peeling off my bottle. “This year,” I say slowly, “might be my last.”

The words hang between us.

Dylan doesn’t react big. Just a small nod, like he’s fitting a puzzle piece into place. “Retirement, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

No.

“Yes.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re going to cause absolute chaos when you tell them.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

But this—this isn’t about contracts or stats or locker room speeches. This is about the rest of my life.

Almost eight years.

Almost eight years since I’ve stood in the same space as my husband. Eight years of interviews watched in the dark, concert clips replayed too many times, his voice coming through speakers instead of rooms.

I’ve built a career in that time. A reputation. A legacy, maybe. But there’s a hole shaped exactly like him that nothing else fills.

“I’m going to reach out,” I say, so quietly Dylan almost doesn’t hear it.

“To who?”

I hesitate. Then drag up the courage from the pit of my stomach and say, “Someone I should’ve called a long time ago.”

Dylan doesn’t push. He just nods once. “Good.”

“It might blow up in my face,” I add. “He might tell me to fuck off.”

“Maybe,” Dylan says. “But at least it’ll be the truth.”

I look back at the yard. At the husbands. The kids. The easy touches. The lives built in the open.

I’ve been waiting for the right time. For the perfect moment. For fear to magically loosen its grip and disappear.

It hasn’t.

If anything, it’s gotten smarter. Quieter. Learned how to dress itself up as patience and practicality and long-term planning. Learned how to whisper not yet until not yet started sounding like never.

But the cost of staying still is starting to outweigh the risk of moving.

San Francisco isn’t just real estate. It isn’t an investment or a safety net or something to talk about with a financial advisor.

It’s a line in the sand.

Retirement. Distance from the spotlight.

A place where I can finally step out of the version of myself that belongs to everyone else and exist as just…

a man. I’ve seen it happen. More than once.

Guys like Ryan Broadwater—out, retired, living their lives quietly, normally.

Coaching their kids’ teams. Walking through grocery stores without anyone shoving a camera in their face.

The League lets you go, eventually. It forgets you in a way that feels merciful.

I know that won’t be true for Rafe.

Steel Saints are still going strong. They’re not a nostalgia act or a flash-in-the-pan success—they’re established, respected, still very much in demand. Rafe lives in the spotlight now, in a way that’s loud and visible and unavoidable. Interviews. Tours. Crowds chanting his name instead of mine.

Do I think I can handle that?

I think… I hope I can.

The difference is, when I step away, I actually get to step away. When I retire, the noise fades. The attention softens. I get to choose quiet in a way he might never fully be able to. I don’t need us to disappear—I just need one part of my life to finally belong to me.

And if Rafe already has a house there?

That might make me desperate. But it also feels like the universe standing directly in my path, daring me to stop pretending this isn’t what I want.

This year, I’m done hiding behind someday.

This year, I make amends.

Or I find out—once and for all—that I waited too long.