Chapter 15
OLLIE
Rafe tells his parents he has company. That’s it. That’s the whole warning shot.
He offers no details, no soft-launch explanation, no easing them into the fact that their son has been trending for twenty-four hours straight because he got kissed by a League captain at a gala full of phones.
I heard him on the phone in the kitchen this morning, voice low and steady, speaking Spanish with the kind of casual warmth that makes my chest ache.
It sounds normal. Like this is normal.
I know better than anyone that Rafe can make anything sound normal when he wants to. It’s how he survives fame. How he keeps people at arm’s length without ever seeming cold. How he’s kept the world from getting too close to the sore spots.
I watch him from the doorway, trying not to hover like a nervous dog, trying not to look like I’m bracing for impact.
He ends the call, sets his phone down, and turns to me. “They said okay,” he says.
“That’s… good,” I manage.
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
I can tell he’s tense anyway. He’s doing that thing where he stretches his fingers one at a time like he’s loosening them, like he’s checking his body is still under his control. His shoulders are slightly higher than usual. His breathing is a little too measured.
People think he’s all swagger and confidence because he can walk onto a stage in front of fifty thousand people and own the air.
But I know the tells. The tiny cracks he refuses to let anyone else see. He’s nervous for a reason, which makes my own anxiety multiply until it feels like it’s crawling under my skin.
Since leaving San Francisco, the photos have been nonstop. There’s no containing it now. There’s no quietly filed and private and no headlines.
There are headlines and videos. There are slowed-down clips of our hands in the car like they’re analyzing a crime scene.
A week ago, I thought I could choose how this happened. Now the world is choosing for me in real time. But I also chose first. I made the decision when jealousy and longing lodged deep in my chest and I kissed Rafe in a room full of people.
I’ve spoken to several teammates in the last thirty-six hours—present and former. People I trust. People who are queer, who have been out, who understand this kind of pressure in a way most people don’t.
They were… incredible.
No guilt trips. No why didn’t you tell me. None of that bullshit that sounds like care and feels like someone making your fear about them.
They checked in, offered support, and told me I didn’t owe anyone an explanation on a timeline that wasn’t mine. They reminded me that coming out isn’t one moment. It’s a thousand.
That helped more than they’ll ever know.
I told them the truth I could tell. I told them I’m gay. That I’m dating. I didn’t tell them I’m married. Not yet.
That truth still feels like a live wire in my mouth. Too hot to hold. Too dangerous to let go of without burning everything down.
Rafe meets my eyes before we exit the plane. He’s watching me watch him.
“You ready?” he asks.
No.
“Yes,” I say anyway.
He nods like he understands both answers.
Vinny drives. The man is an immovable force, an anchor with a security license and a stare that makes grown men forget how to speak.
Rafe stays quiet in the back seat beside me. He looks out the window, jaw set. My hands are damp. My heart won’t slow. Halfway there, I turn my palm upward between us, a silent question I’m not brave enough to speak.
Rafe’s gaze flicks down and softens. He threads his fingers through mine immediately. It’s such a simple thing, so ordinary. It hits me so hard I almost can’t breathe.
There’s no hesitation. No careful glance around. No calculation. Just yes.
Vinny clears his throat in the front, a sound that’s probably meant to be neutral and lands like approval anyway.
The street is quiet. A clean suburb, small estate feel—neat lawns, identical mailboxes, houses set back with the kind of privacy you can’t buy in LA no matter how much money you throw at it.
When Vinny pulls into the driveway, I force my lungs to work. Rafe doesn’t let go of my hand.
This house is not the house I visited years ago. Back then, it was smaller. A place that smelled like home and food and worn comfort. It sat like it had always been there. It made me feel like an intruder even while his mother smiled like she already knew my name.
This place is newer. Modern and bigger. It’s not ostentatious. It’s still modest in the way that matters—lived-in, practical, chosen for safety and peace, not for flexing.
Rafe squeezes my hand once. “Okay?” he murmurs.
I swallow. “Okay.”
Vinny gets out first, scanning automatically. There are no paps, no lurking people with phones or cameras. I relax my shoulders.
I step out beside Rafe, and the cold February air bites immediately—sharp, clean, bracing. My breath fogs. My palms are sweating anyway.
Rafe starts toward the front door like he owns the world and this is just another stop. He’s good at that. He’s built an entire career out of it.
The closer we get, the more my stomach twists. I glance at him, then back at the door, then look at our joined hands again like I’m making sure I’m still allowed to hold on. “Can I—” I start.
Rafe turns, brows lifting slightly.
I clear my throat. “Can we… keep holding hands?”
His expression changes so quickly it almost hurts. Something soft cracks through the tension, bright and quiet. “Yeah,” he says immediately. “Of course.”
He laces our fingers tighter, like he wants to be the one holding me up now.
We don’t knock. Rafe pushes the door open and calls out, voice loud and affectionate all at once. “Mamá, Papá—why is the door unlocked?”
There’s movement inside. A laugh. Rafe steps fully into the foyer, tugging me with him, and the house smells like warmth and something citrusy—clean and bright.
His voice continues, playful but scolding. “Seriously. You can’t keep doing that. I’ve told you—”
“Rafael!” a voice calls from deeper inside, and then his mother appears in the kitchen doorway.
She’s smaller than I remember but somehow fills the space like light. Her hair is pulled back, cheeks flushed from cooking. She’s wearing a sweater and apron like it’s the most normal day in the world.
Her eyes land on our hands. She goes still for half a heartbeat. Then she smiles. I can’t see any caution in the act. It’s not forced. My chest squeezes. She just looks happy.
“My son,” she says warmly, in Spanish, and crosses the room fast. She cups Rafe’s face in both hands and kisses his forehead, talking to him in a quick stream of words I only half catch—mijo and loco and something that sounds like she’s scolding him for worrying her.
The knife.
Shit.
I hope he told her. I hope she didn’t have to find out from headlines or grainy footage. It feels surreal how little space it’s taken up in my head—the cold splash of liquid across my face, the flash of silver, the scream. In that moment at the gala, my heart had nearly stopped.
And yet since then, it’s like my brain filed it somewhere high and out of reach. Deferred. Postponed. Something to deal with later.
Right now, my whole world is Rafe and the fragile, impossible hope of us.
His shoulders drop, tension easing in the way it only ever seems to around his mom.
Then she turns to me. Her eyes soften, and she hugs me like she means it. It’s not a polite pat. Not a careful celebrity-distance gesture. It’s a full, tight, mother hug.
It calms me for a second. Tells me, unequivocally, that I’m safe here.
I tower over her, awkward for half a moment, and then something in me just…
gives. I wrap my arms around her gently and feel emotion clogging my throat.
There’s magic in her hold. I don’t know how else to describe it.
Like the warmth goes straight through the walls I’ve spent my whole life building.
It makes me think of my grandma. She gave the best hugs. The kind that smelled like flour and perfume and unconditional love. The kind that made my heart feel less hollow.
I miss her so sharply it nearly knocks me over.
I wish she hadn’t died so young. I wish she could see me now—standing in a home where love is offered without conditions.
Rafe’s mother pulls back and looks up at me, hands still on my arms. “Oliver,” she says, like she’s been expecting me. “Bienvenido. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I manage, voice rough. “It’s… it’s good to see you again.”
Her eyes flick toward my face, no doubt taking in the tension around my eyes. Her brow furrows with concern, but she doesn’t pry. Instead, she pats my arm again and turns her attention back to Rafe, still speaking Spanish, still fussing.
His father appears a second later just as Rafe reaches for me, wiping his hands on a towel.
He’s taller than his wife, broad-shouldered, face lined with quiet strength. His eyes land on our joined hands. He pauses, then steps forward and offers me his hand.
Firm grip. Solid. Respectful.
“Oliver,” he says. His English is strong, accented. “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, sir.”
He pulls me into a brief, strong hug that surprises me. It’s fast, masculine, warm in the way dads sometimes are when they don’t want to get emotional in front of anyone. Then he claps Rafe’s shoulder and mutters something in Spanish that makes Rafe roll his eyes affectionately.
Vinny stays near the door, a silent presence, giving us our moment while still scanning like it’s his religion.
Rafe’s mom finally notices him properly and smiles. “Vinny,” she says, like she knows him too.
Vinny nods politely. “Ma’am.”
She gestures at him like he’s part of the family. “You eat?”
Vinny’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. “Maybe later.” He clears his throat, professional again. “I’ll be outside. If you want to go anywhere, call me and give me thirty minutes’ notice.”
Rafe’s dad nods. “Gracias.”
Vinny leaves. The door shuts behind him. And suddenly, it’s just… us.