Chapter 14 #2
I’ve built a career telling people to mind their business. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t grate sometimes.
Phil disappears down the hallway to settle Amelia into one of the guest rooms. Lindy drifts toward the kitchen island, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
“This place is gorgeous, Rafe,” she says, looking around properly now. “The views alone….”
“Worth the mortgage,” I say lightly, even though I’m full of it and paid cash.
Ollie leans against the counter, watching me move around the kitchen. It hits me suddenly that he’s never seen this version of my life. Not really. He saw LA. Hotels. Tour buses. Chaos.
He didn’t see the house I bought after rehab. The one I stood in empty and sober and tried to imagine a future in. And yes—if I’m being brutally honest—I did imagine him in it. Even when I told myself not to.
I pass Lindy her tea and slide a soda across to Ollie. Phil returns, rubbing his hands together.
“She’s out cold,” he says. “Didn’t even stir.”
I hand him the alcohol-free beer. He checks the label, nods once. “Perfect.”
We settle at the large dining table instead of the island this time. It feels more deliberate. More… family.
“So where’d you end up?” Ollie asks Lindy, easing into the chair beside her.
“Everywhere cold,” she says. “Pier 39. That weird candy shop that charges twelve dollars for fudge. And then we walked half a mile because Amelia decided she needed to ‘see a boat properly.’”
Ollie laughs softly. “She gets that from you.”
“No, she does not,” Lindy protests. “I’m reasonable.”
Phil snorts into his beer.
The conversation flows easily. They tell us about street performers and a dog wearing a sweater more expensive than my shoes. About Amelia insisting on waving at every passing boat captain like she was royalty.
It’s warm, normal—almost absurdly so after the last forty-eight hours.
At some point, Lindy tilts her head at me, mischief sparking. “Did he ever tell you about the Christmas concert incident?”
Ollie groans immediately. “No.”
“Which one?” Phil asks, delighted.
“He was ten,” Lindy says, eyes bright. “And he had a solo. ‘Silent Night.’”
“Oh my God,” Ollie mutters.
“He was so serious about it,” she continues. “Practiced for weeks. Wouldn’t let anyone talk during rehearsal.”
“That tracks,” I say, shooting a wink at Ollie. He rolls his eyes, the small smirk settling on his lips making my heart flutter.
She beams at me. “Right? So he gets up there in front of the whole church. Dead silent. First line out of his mouth?”
Ollie buries his face in his hands.
“He sings ‘Silent Night’ to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells.’”
Phil chokes on his beer. I laugh—full and unguarded—and Ollie peeks through his fingers, half offended.
“I was nervous,” he defends weakly.
“He tried to commit,” Lindy says fondly. “Just powered through it. Wrong tune and all.”
The image of a ten-year-old Ollie—earnest and mortified and trying to salvage it anyway—does something strange to my chest.
I never had this. Not properly. Lindy knew about us. When she found out, it was all fire and fallout with their parents cutting him off. There wasn’t room for sweet stories then. There was only survival.
I realize I’m smiling faintly at the thought of him as a kid, and that’s when something heavier creeps in.
My parents. Have they seen the photos?
There’s no way they haven’t. My mamá checks Facebook like it’s her job. My papá pretends he doesn’t care about media, but Rosa sends him links—not that she will about this.
Pictures of Ollie kissing me in a room full of people are everywhere. I suspect there are now ones of us holding hands. Probably of me looking like I might combust.
My heart lurches.
Rosa and I spoke last night after the gala chaos. I told her everything. Not the sanitized version. The real one. The marriage. The years. The divorce papers.
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “You should have told me sooner.” She wasn’t angry, just… sad.
She took it well, all things considered. But that was Rosa. Logical. Steady. Used to cleaning up my messes.
My parents are different. Traditional. Proud. Catholic in that quiet, ingrained way that doesn’t shout but doesn’t bend easily either. They love me, but love doesn’t always mean understanding. And that I lied to them for so long about my marriage and the man I love is going to sting.
I go quiet without meaning to.
Ollie notices immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
His brows dip in concern; he doesn’t buy it.
I sigh and lean back in my chair. “I need to talk to my parents.”
The table stills.
Lindy’s eyes soften. Phil nods slowly like that makes sense.
Ollie doesn’t flinch. “Okay,” he says simply.
I search his face for hesitation. For dread. Instead, he looks… thoughtful.
“I have to be in Minnesota in two days,” he says carefully. “I need to get ready for our next game.”
“Yeah.” I already know this. The reminder, though, twists something ugly in my gut.
He glances at Phil. “You good on the loft? Need anything else from me?”
Phil shakes his head. “We’re solid. Final walkthrough’s done. Carol’s got it from here.”
Ollie nods once. Then he looks back at me. “Let’s go see them tomorrow.”
It takes me a second to process his words. “My parents?”
“Yes.”
I blink. “Ollie—”
“We’ll tell them together,” he says quietly. “Like we should have done all those years ago.”
The air shifts. Phil’s gaze drops to his beer. Lindy’s eyes glisten. I stare at Ollie like he’s just handed me something fragile and priceless.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I know.” His voice doesn’t waver. “I want to.”
My lungs stall painfully.
He’s not doing this for optics. Or guilt. He’s choosing it. Choosing to stand next to me when it counts.
“Okay,” I say finally. It comes out rougher than I intended.
He reaches for my hand and squeezes once. I feel it all the way to my ribs.
Slow, I chant silently. Slow. But fuck, I love this man.
Lindy blinks rapidly and laughs softly at herself. “Sorry,” she says, brushing at her eyes. “I’m hormonal and emotional and all of this is… a lot.”
Ollie smiles at her gently. “You good?”
“I’m good,” she insists. “Just… proud of you. Both of you.”
He excuses himself a minute later, murmuring something about the bathroom. The second he disappears down the hallway, Lindy turns to me. Her expression shifts—less sister, more… guardian.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
I huff a small laugh. “That seems to be the theme tonight.”
“Answer it anyway.”
I lean back in my chair and consider the ceiling for a second. “I’m scared,” I admit, giving her honesty. “And I’m trying not to let that make decisions for me.”
Phil nods slowly. “Fair.”
Lindy studies me carefully. “You know I care about you, right?”
“I know.”
“And I know what he did,” she adds quickly, before I can stiffen. “I know he left. I know you were the one who got your heart smashed.”
There it is. The thing that’s lived at the edge of my tongue for days now.
He left me.
She doesn’t let me say it.
“But,” she continues firmly, “I also know he didn’t leave because he stopped loving you.”
I swallow hard.
“He thought he was protecting you,” she says softly. “From the League. From our parents. From himself.”
“That doesn’t make it less painful.”
“No,” she agrees. “It doesn’t.”
Phil leans forward slightly. “He was a mess, Rafe. After. And I met him for the first time maybe three months later.”
I look at him sharply.
“He didn’t tell you?” Lindy asks gently.
“Tell me what?”
Her voice lowers. “He stopped sleeping. He’d drive past your old house when he was here in LA. He kept every clipping about the band in a box under his bed. And the photo album on his phone is out of control.”
My breath catches.
“He didn’t date,” Phil adds quietly. “Not really. Not even a couple of awkward attempts. He couldn’t.”
I swallow.
“He carried you like a bruise,” Lindy says. “He just didn’t know how to hold you without breaking everything else.”
Silence settles heavy around the table. The anger I’ve clung to for eight years flickers uncertainly. “He still shouldn’t have walked,” I say finally.
“No,” she agrees again. “He shouldn’t have.”
She meets my eyes. “But he came back.”
That lands differently.
“He’s not that scared kid anymore,” she continues. “And neither are you.”
Phil nods once. “You get to protect yourself. Absolutely. But don’t punish him forever for something he’s clearly been punishing himself for.”
My throat burns. I glance toward the hallway where Ollie disappeared.
He came after me. Flew across the country, held my hand in front of cameras, and suggested facing my parents together. That’s not the same man who left me eight years ago with silence and fear in his eyes.
When Ollie returns, he looks between us warily. “You plotting against me?” he asks lightly.
“Always,” Lindy says, smiling through the last of her tears.
He sits back down beside me. Our shoulders brush. And for the first time since this all reignited, I let myself imagine something dangerous.
Not a sprint. Not Vegas. Not intensity for intensity’s sake.
But a future that isn’t defined by fear.
He has two days before Minnesota. I have a conversation with my parents tomorrow.
There will be more headlines. There will be fallout once he returns to the court. But there might also be this—dinner tables and inside jokes and small hands fisted in sweaters and someone choosing to stand beside you when it counts.
Slow, I remind myself again.
But as Ollie’s hand finds mine under the table, warm and steady, I can’t help thinking that maybe slow doesn’t mean small. Maybe it just means intentional.
And maybe, after everything, that’s enough.