Chapter 5 #2
He seriously is. When I first met my then-soon-to-be brother-in-law seven years ago, I’d had no idea what to expect. A hardworking guy with his feet on the ground who wasn’t fazed by our uptight shitty parents had been a hell of a relief.
Carol’s smile softens. “And Lindy deserves a husband who doesn’t suck.”
“Agreed,” Marco says firmly, then glances at me. “Remind me what time your flight is tomorrow?”
“Late. Red-eye.”
Carol frowns. “Training camp soon, right?”
“Two days,” I confirm.
Marco mutters something about coaches being demons.
I pick at my food, appetite still missing. Then another thought hits me like a tap on the shoulder.
“Mina’s birthday is soon,” I say.
Carol smiles. “Two weeks.”
“Shit.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I need to get her a gift.”
Marco’s grin turns sly. “Get her a drum kit.”
Carol kicks him under the table.
“Ow,” Marco says, laughing. “What? It builds character.”
I let the banter wash over me, grateful for it, even while grief still sits heavy in my chest. Because I can’t give up. Not after tonight. Not after seeing him. Not after hearing him sing a song that was always about us and pretending it didn’t rip me in half.
But the fear is still there too.
Will I come out before I retire?
My stomach twists at the thought. I wish I could say yes. Fuck, I wish I could. But the choices I made didn’t vanish just because I’m finally trying to be brave in other ways. The fear didn’t evaporate because I’m tired of carrying it.
And what would be the point of all the hurt and secrets and heartache if I came out right now? If I made this big public gesture while still standing in the same place of fear that kept me silent for years?
There isn’t even a right or wrong.
There’s just… me. My truth. My timeline. My consequences.
I look at Marco and Carol across the table—people who love me, people who know pieces of me and still choose me. And I think about Rafe. About the way he said “I can’t.” About the ring on his right hand. About the charity. About how my heart is still his, even if he never takes it back.
Marco’s gaze sharpens like he can feel my thoughts shifting. He leans forward. “You’re not giving up,” he says, not a question.
I swallow. “No.”
Marco nods once, fierce. “Good.”
Carol squeezes my hand again. “Just… be careful,” she murmurs. “With your heart.”
I laugh, bitter and soft. “Little late for that.”
Morning comes too fast. I’ve slept maybe three hours—if you can call it sleep when your brain keeps replaying a green room doorway and a voice saying “I can’t” like it’s a verdict carved into stone.
Marco’s coffee is the kind that could raise the dead, and he hands me a mug without a word the second I step into his kitchen.
Carol is already dressed, hair pinned up, moving around the space with the efficiency of a woman who runs a household and a business and still somehow looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.
“You two have fun playing with balls,” she says, kissing Marco’s cheek, then mine. “Don’t let him teach the kids to trash-talk adults.”
Marco scoffs. “Trash talk is an art form.”
Mina pops up behind her, rubbing her eyes. Tucker is half asleep and clinging to Carol’s leg.
“Uncle Ollie,” Mina mumbles, then yawns. “You’re leaving today?”
“Tonight,” I tell her softly.
She frowns like the concept offends her. “I wish you could stay again.”
“I know.” I crouch, brushing her hair back. “But I’ll be back.”
Tucker raises his dinosaur at me like it’s a warning. “Don’t go.”
My lungs lock for a second. “I have to,” I say gently. “But we can talk on FaceTime, deal?”
He thinks about it, then nods solemnly. “Deal.”
Marco gives me a look as we step outside—something that says you’re good with them, something that says you’re good, even if you don’t feel like it.
The air is like warm soup, the sky pale blue. We drive in comfortable silence to the community center, the city waking up around us.
It’s not fancy—just a squat building with faded paint, a parking lot with cracks, a mural on the side wall that looks like it was done by someone who cared enough to make it bright anyway. Inside, it smells like rubber soles, old basketballs, and floor cleaner.
It smells like my childhood.
Maria meets us near the entrance, clipboard in hand, ponytail swinging, wearing a T-shirt with the program logo stitched over the heart.
“Hey, Ollie,” she greets me, wrapping me in a quick hug—professional but affectionate—then hugs Marco, too, like they’re old friends. Which they are, in the way community work makes you family fast.
“Coach Marco,” she says, grinning. “We’re lucky today.”
Marco tips an imaginary hat. “Lucky is subjective.”
Maria laughs and gestures toward the gym. “They’re already bouncing off the walls.”
We step onto the court and the noise hits immediately—sneakers squeaking, balls dribbling, kids shouting at one another like the only thing that matters in the world is whether someone traveled.
A couple of the older ones spot me and freeze before they remember themselves and act cool. I’ve been here as often as possible for six weeks—longer than I planned, but some causes are worth the time and energy.
Maria claps her hands, commanding attention. “All right! Eyes up! We’ve got a special session today, and if you embarrass me, I will personally make you run suicides until you regret being born.”
A chorus of “Nooooo!” rises up.
I grin despite myself.
“Today,” Maria continues, “we’ve got Coach Marco Reyes joining Coach Ollie. That means you listen, you work, and you don’t ask for autographs until the end. Clear?”
A few kids groan dramatically. One kid raises his hand anyway.
Maria points. “No.”
The kid’s shoulders slump.
Marco elbows me lightly. “These kids are feral.”
“They’re kids,” I murmur.
“Feral,” he repeats.
We split them into groups. It’s muscle memory for me—warm-up drills, footwork, basic ball handling. I weave through the lines, correcting stances, encouraging, nudging.
Luca, a kid with curly hair and too-long limbs, keeps trying to cross someone up with flair he hasn’t earned.
“Luca.” I shake my head. I seriously like this kid, but I swear he never listens. “You got talent.”
He flashes a cocky grin. “I know.”
Marco snorts behind me.
“But,” I add, and his expression falters, “talent doesn’t mean shit if you don’t have control. Again. This time keep your eyes up.”
Luca rolls his eyes with the drama of a teenager who thinks he’s the first person to ever be inconvenienced. “Yes, sir.”
He’s fifteen. A Mexican kid with a sharp mouth and sharper instincts. The kind who talks like he’s older because life forced it, not because he wants to be.
I watch him run the drill again. This time he does it right. Clean. Smooth. Controlled.
The other kid guarding him mutters, “Damn.”
Luca smiles like he’s won an award, and I point at him. “That. That’s what I’m talking about.”
He bounces the ball once, twice. “So you’re saying I’m basically you.”
I bark out a laugh. “I’m saying you’re going to get humbled the second you meet someone faster than you.”
He tilts his head. “You’re faster than me?”
“Yes,” I say. “And I’m old.”
He scoffs. “You’re not old.”
“I’m ancient,” I insist.
Marco mutters, “He’s thirtysomething and dramatic.”
“Okay, Coach Retired,” I shoot back without looking.
Marco flips me off. Luca cackles. And just like that, the heaviness in my chest loosens a fraction.
Because this—this is real. This is something I can do.
Not because it fixes anything or erases the past, but because it matters to someone who isn’t thinking about eight years of silence and a ring on a right hand.
We move into shooting drills. Then defense. Then a short scrimmage.
Luca is loud the entire time, calling plays, trash-talking like it’s his birthright.
“You call that defense?” he yells at one kid. “My abuela moves faster than you, and she got a bad knee!”
The kid he’s roasting shouts, “Your abuela doesn’t even play!”
Luca shrugs. “She would if she had to.”
I’m laughing before I can stop myself.
Between plays, Luca drifts closer to me, bouncing the ball under one hand like he’s been doing it his whole life.
“So,” he says casually, “you’re leaving today, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be back, though.”
He nods before squinting at me. “You look tired.”
The words hit sharper than they should. Marco makes a sound like he’s swallowing a laugh.
I eye Luca. “You always tell adults the truth to their face?”
“Yeah,” Luca says, unbothered. “It saves time.”
Smart kid.
“Then yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m tired.”
Luca nods like that’s acceptable, then grins again. “You still got a jumper, though.”
“Damn right.”
We finish the session with a cooldown, kids sprawled on the floor, panting and laughing. Maria organizes the sign-out sheets, hands out water bottles, keeps the chaos contained.
Marco and I stay after to help stack cones, gather stray balls, wipe down equipment. It’s the calm after the storm, the kind that feels earned.
Maria waves me over. She’s near her small office door, clipboard hugged to her chest, and her entire body looks like it’s vibrating. She’s usually calm, purposeful even. She’s also the kind of woman who could stare down a room full of teenagers and win.
Right now, she looks like she might levitate.
“Okay,” she says, voice too bright. “Okay, I need you to not freak out.”
My stomach drops. “What happened?” I ask.
Marco appears at my side, wiping sweat off the back of his neck. “If you say the gym caught fire, I’m leaving.”
Maria shakes her head quickly. “No, nothing like that. It’s—Ollie, we got a new donor.”
I blink. “What?”
She nods furiously, eyes shining. “A big one.”
“Define big,” Marco says.
Maria’s smile goes borderline wild. “Ten million.”
Silence. The words don’t compute.
“Ten… what?” I manage.
“Ten million,” she repeats, enunciating like I’m slow. “Initial donation. With a commitment of five million every year for ten years.”