Chapter 5 #3
My knees go weak. I grab the edge of the table behind me without thinking. “Maria,” I say, voice rough, “are you serious?”
She nods again, practically bouncing. “I’m serious.”
Marco’s mouth is open. “Holy shit.”
My brain scrambles for logic. “Who?”
Maria glances down at her clipboard like she wants to savor it again. “It’s through a foundation. Medina—Medina Family Trust.”
My heartbeat stutters.
Medina.
The word sparks something in my memory, like a match striking in the dark.
I can see it—Rafe’s mom’s full name, written on a form once.
A story he told me in bed, half asleep, about his mother’s maiden name and how her father insisted on keeping it alive because names were history and history mattered.
Medina.
I go cold and hot at the same time.
“That’s…” My mouth is dry. “That’s the name?”
Maria nods. “And there’s more. The paperwork includes a note—just… a short one. No contact details. But it says the trust supports programs that provide legal resources for immigrant families and community-based youth support. It’s… basically exactly what we do.”
Marco’s eyes narrow. “You think—”
“I don’t know,” I cut in, because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. It becomes hope. And hope is dangerous.
Maria watches my face like she’s trying to read the story behind it. “Ollie… are you all right?”
“No,” I say honestly, then force a breath. “Yes. I don’t know.” My hands shake as I rub my palms on my shorts, because it doesn’t make sense.
The show hasn’t aired. The public doesn’t know I talked about it. There’s no viral clip. No donation drive sparked by a talk-show moment.
This wasn’t influenced by the audience, which means it was already in motion, or it was personal.
I hear Rafe’s voice in my head, surprised, raw: “You did that?” I swallow hard.
Maria touches my arm, grounding me. “Whatever this is,” she says softly, “it changes everything.”
She’s right.
Ten million means stability. It means expansion. It means more lawyers on retainer, more programs, more staff. It means kids like Luca don’t fall through the cracks because the system was built to swallow them whole.
It means… it means someone just threw their weight behind something that matters. And all I can think is: Was it him?
I help Maria finish packing, but my mind is elsewhere. Marco keeps glancing at me like he’s worried I’ll dissolve into pieces right here on the court.
When we’re done, Maria walks me to the front doors. “Training camp soon, right?” she asks.
“Three days,” I confirm.
Her face falls. “While I knew that, I kinda hoped you weren’t. You’re flying out tonight?”
“Yeah. The red-eye.”
“You already stayed longer than you planned,” she says, and it’s not guilt—it’s understanding. They always need more time than you can give.
“I know,” I say. “But I’m not gone. I’m just… on the other end of the line. You call, I answer.”
Maria’s eyes soften. “We’ll hold you to that.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I promise, and I mean it.
Marco drives me straight to the airport. The goodbye at his car feels heavier than it should.
He pulls into the drop-off lane and kills the engine, turning to face me. “You’re okay,” he says, voice firm.
I bark out a humorless laugh. “Sure.”
We hug, quick and hard. The kind of hug you give someone when you don’t know how to fix their pain, but you refuse to let them face it alone.
“Text me when you land,” he orders.
“I will,” I promise. I grab my bag and step out into the chaos of the airport.
By the time I’m through security, my adrenaline has crashed into exhaustion. My body feels hollow, like I’ve been running for days.
I find a seat near my gate and stare at my phone. I shouldn’t. It’s late. It’s emotional. It’s impulsive. And I don’t even know if his number still works.
But I think about Medina. I think about the way Rafe looked when I spoke about the program, and about his ring. I think about the way he said “I can’t” like he was bleeding.
And I do the thing I’ve been too afraid to do for years.
I reach out.
My fingers hover over his contact, and I realize it’s still there. Still saved. Still waiting. I type slowly, the words measured like I’m defusing a bomb.
Me: Did you… invest in the program? The Medina Family Trust donation.
I stare at it before adding more.
If it was you—thank you. Truly. It will change lives.
My thumb hesitates. Then I hit Send. The message sits there, delivered—no bounce back. No instant rejection. My heart lurches so hard it hurts.
I stare at the screen for a long time. There’s no response. I shouldn’t expect one. Still, the quiet that follows feels like standing outside a locked door in the rain.
Boarding starts. I stand in line with my bag, half asleep, half aware.
The plane is cold. The volume too loud. The overhead lights are too bright. I buckle in, shove my bag under the seat, and watch the aisle slowly clear. My phone is in my hand even though it shouldn’t be.
We taxi. The safety video plays, and I’m about to turn my phone off when the screen lights up with a new message. For a second, my heart stops. Then it starts again, too fast.
Rafe: Yeah. It was me.
That’s it. No warmth. No invitation. But it’s him. It’s real. And it means he heard me.
I swallow hard, staring at the words until my eyes burn.
Hope is dangerous. It’s a blade. But it’s also an ember.
I type back before I can overthink it—before fear can glue my words to my heart again.
Me: Thank you.
Then I turn my phone off because the flight attendant is walking down the aisle and because I’m shaking and because if I keep holding this moment too tightly, I’ll crush it.
As the plane lifts into the night, the city falling away beneath us like glittering dust, I close my eyes and let myself believe one small thing: He’s still capable of caring.
And if that’s true, then maybe I’m not too late.
Not yet.