Chapter 7
OLLIE
“Say it again,” Eric says, like if I repeat it, I’ll magically change my mind.
I stare out over the Minneapolis Riverfront from the windows of my loft, phone pressed to my ear, the water washed in pale winter late-morning light. It’s All-Star break. Which means six clean days with no practices, no media obligations I can’t shrug off, and no locker room eyes on me.
Six days that suddenly feel like a cliff edge.
“I’m done after this season,” I say, voice lower than it should be. “I’m retiring.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then Eric exhales. He sounds resigned, like he’s been watching a train approach the station for months and is finally hearing the brakes squeal.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I hear you.”
My grip constricts on the phone. “You’re not surprised.”
“I’m your agent, not your mother,” he replies dryly. “I pay attention.”
I swallow hard, throat burning, ignoring how close to the truth he is about my mom not having even spoken to me in years.
“My shoulder’s fine,” I lie automatically.
Eric makes a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Ollie.”
I close my eyes.
He doesn’t need me to say it. He’s seen the minutes management. The way I’m careful about contact. The way my shooting motion stiffens when it’s cold. The way I keep that arm taped longer than I need to, and how I avoid certain movements in training.
He knows.
“I’m not saying it’s catastrophic,” he says more gently. “But it’s not 100 percent either, and we both know you’ve been keeping it quiet.”
My stomach twists.
“Look,” he continues, business voice clicking into place, “contract’s up at the end of this season. That makes it cleaner. We can make it your decision. Your timing. You can go out with dignity. We’ll talk to the GM quietly first, keep it internal until you’re ready.”
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. “You’ll handle it?”
“That’s what you pay me for,” he says, and then he softens again. “Are you sure, Ollie?”
No.
Yes.
I stare at my reflection in the window. The face staring back looks older than I feel, tired around the eyes. Captain. Leader. The guy everyone expects to keep going forever.
“I’m sure,” I say.
Eric is quiet for a beat before he says, “Okay. I’ll set up a meeting. We’ll be strategic. We’ll protect you. You tell me when you want the announcement, and I’ll build the runway.”
A shaky breath slips out of me before I can stop it. “Thanks,” I manage.
“And Ollie?” Eric adds. “This isn’t you giving up. This is you choosing your life. Don’t let anyone spin it different.”
I blink hard. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
We wrap up logistics—timelines, the GM, the media strategy, the inevitable farewell tour of tributes and highlight reels—and then the call ends.
The second the line goes dead, my hand drops to my side like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I just told my agent I’m retiring. I just made it real.
My legs feel a little shaky as I turn away from the window and walk deeper into my loft. The place is warm, clean, quiet. It should feel like home by now. It mostly does. But tonight it feels like a waiting room.
I let out a long breath and try to steady my heartbeat. Six days off, and tomorrow morning I fly to San Francisco.
The renovations are done. Phil’s been the point person, sending me videos and progress updates from his team like he’s personally invested in making sure I don’t back out of having a future.
Lindy and Phil are heading out too. Amelia—my niece—has been counting down the days like it’s Disneyland. Lindy sent me a voice note two nights ago of Amelia yelling, “Uncle Ollie has a house in San Fran and we’re gonna see it!”
I’d laughed until my chest hurt.
They’re staying in a suite at the same hotel I booked myself.
The house isn’t ready to sleep in yet, not comfortably—not with dust and tools and exposed edges.
So I paid for something nice, because if I’m going to drag my sister across the country to help me finish my escape plan, the least I can do is make it feel like a vacation.
I’m supposed to be packing. I’m on my way to do exactly that, still half grinning, half terrified, when the bell to my loft buzzes.
I pause, frowning. Nobody comes up without permission. Not here. Not in this building. The staff is too good, too tight, too protective of the residents.
The intercom crackles. “Mr. Marshall?” It’s the doorman, Henry.
“Yeah?” I answer, stepping closer.
“You’re needed downstairs,” he says carefully. “Someone’s here to see you.”
Confusion flickers through me. “Who?”
“I—” Henry hesitates. “It appears to be… service, sir.”
My stomach drops a fraction.
Service.
That word belongs to lawsuits and bad news and things you don’t want delivered to your home.
“I’ll be right down,” I say.
I don’t bother putting shoes on properly. I just slide them on, moving on autopilot as my heart starts thudding a little faster.
The elevator ride down is too quiet. Each floor ticked off feels like a countdown.
When the doors open, the lobby is warm and polished and expensive, the kind of place with art that looks like it cost too much and furniture nobody actually sits on. Henry stands at the desk, expression controlled. Across from him is a man in a plain suit holding a manila envelope.
I know what that is before I even reach them.
My heart twists.
The man turns as I approach. “Oliver Marshall?”
“Yes,” I say, voice flat.
“I’m here to serve you,” he says, professional, emotionless. He holds out the envelope. “These are legal documents. You’ve been served.”
My hand comes up automatically, fingers closing around the envelope like it’s going to burn me. “What is this?” I manage, though I already know.
“It should be explained inside,” he replies. “Have a good evening.”
Then he turns and walks out like he hasn’t just tossed a grenade into my life.
Henry’s gaze flicks to my face. “Mr. Marshall—”
“I’m fine,” I lie, because Henry doesn’t deserve to see me unravel.
He nods once, but his eyes stay kind. “If you need anything….”
“Thanks,” I say quietly, then back toward the elevator with my head buzzing.
I can feel the weight of the envelope in my hand like it’s pulling my arm down.
By the time the elevator doors slide shut, my palms are damp. I stare at the manila paper. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s—
I don’t know. Some idiot suing me because I didn’t sign something. Some marketing bullshit. A legal threat about a photo. An old endorsement contract.
It could be anything. Except my gut knows. It knows because I’ve spent eight years waiting for the day he’d finally decide he was done too.
I step into my loft like I’m walking onto thin ice. The silence hits me immediately—too big, too hollow. I set the envelope on my kitchen counter and stare at it for a long moment, chest rising and falling too quickly.
My hands shake as I slice it open with a knife, the blade too sharp, the motion too precise. Like if I do it neatly, the contents won’t hurt as much.
The paper slides out.
Official letterhead.
Legal language.
My eyes skim, then snag.
Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
Divorce.
The words swim on the page like they’re trying to escape my gaze. My stomach drops so violently I have to grip the counter.
No.
No, no, no.
A cold sweat breaks across my skin. My vision narrows at the edges, and for one terrifying second, I think I’m going to black out right here in my own kitchen. It feels like being hit again, all at once. Like the past eight years were just the wind-up and this is the punch.
I swallow hard, but it doesn’t help. My mouth is dry. My throat is closed.
My mind is a mess of noise.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I read the first page again like it might change. It doesn’t.
His name is there. His signature line, waiting.
Dates. Requirements. Filing details.
It’s clean. Efficient. Adult. Like we’re just… paperwork. Like we weren’t vows and heat and laughter and that stupid ring on his right hand and the one still sitting snug against my chest.
My legs feel weak. I sink onto a barstool and stare at the papers until the words blur.
Of course he filed. Of course he did.
He told me he couldn’t do this, and I respected it, I walked away, I let him go—
And now he’s cutting the last thread from a distance.
I press a palm to my forehead.
Will I come out before I retire? The thought flickers through my mind like a cruel joke. I wish I could say yes. God, I wish I could. But I can’t even breathe through a stack of paper right now, let alone rebuild my entire life in public.
What would have been the point of any of the hurt and secrets and heartache if I came out now, in the middle of my last season, under the microscope, while my shoulder is failing and my soul is cracked open?
There isn’t even a right or wrong here.
It just is.
My truth is mine.
My fear is mine.
My consequences are mine.
And this—this is his. Rafe’s decision. Rafe choosing himself.
I should be proud of him. I should be relieved that he’s finally doing what I was too cowardly to initiate. Instead, all I feel is grief so sharp it makes my ribs ache.
I stare at the papers and think, absurdly, of tomorrow morning’s flight to San Francisco. Of a house meant to be my future. Of the fog. Of the hope that maybe, somehow, I could make amends.
And now I’m holding proof that he doesn’t want my amends. He wants an ending.
My phone buzzes on the counter—probably Lindy, probably a flight detail, probably excitement about Amelia’s outfits.
I don’t answer. I just stare at the divorce papers and let the sickness roll through me. Because I can’t let it end like this. I can’t. Not without trying.
I don’t sit with it. That’s the thing. I don’t spiral. I don’t overthink. I don’t call anyone for advice or lie down on the floor and stare at the ceiling like I usually do when life punches me in the chest.
I react.
The divorce papers are still spread across my kitchen counter when I move again, my body buzzing like it’s been plugged into something dangerous.