Chapter 17
OLLIE
The first thing I notice when the car turns onto my street is the color.
Rainbow flags.
Not one or two but a cluster. Some big, some small. One wrapped around someone’s shoulders like a cape. Someone else has face paint. Another holds up a handmade sign that says We love you, Captain in thick, messy letters.
My chest loosens before I even realize it was tight.
“Looks like your welcome committee,” the driver says.
“Yeah,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I expect.
Behind them, though, are the press. Cameras. Boom mics. Phones raised like weapons. The usual.
The driver slows. “You want me to pull up close?”
“Please.”
He does. I take a breath, steadying myself before I open the door. The noise hits immediately.
“Ollie! Ollie, are you and Rafe Ortiz in a relationship?”
“Is this why you’ve never dated publicly?”
“Did your team know?”
“Is this going to affect your captaincy?”
“Ollie, do you have a statement?”
The fans cheer over the top of it.
One of them shouts, “We love you, Ollie!”
Another, louder: “You and Rafe are iconic!”
I can’t help it. I smile.
I wave at them, really wave, not the polite athlete version. Their faces light up. One of them starts crying. That almost undoes me.
The cameras go feral.
“Captain Marshall, some critics say you’ve misled fans—”
“Ollie, do you think hiding your sexuality makes you a bad role model?”
That one punches through, and my smile falters. I don’t stop moving. Don’t engage. I’ve been trained for this since I was nineteen.
Ignore. Deflect. Survive.
Still, the words cling.
Bad role model.
The security guy from the building lets me in quickly, shutting the heavy glass door behind me before another question can wedge itself through the gap. The noise dulls instantly—still there, but muted. Contained.
The sudden quiet feels like stepping underwater after standing in brutal wind. As soon as I’m alone in the elevator, I lean my head back against the cool wall.
Breathe in.
Four.
Hold.
Four.
Out.
Six.
It’s automatic. Muscle memory from a time when my body used to betray me without warning.
When panic attacks would hit like a freight train—vision tunneling, hands numb, heart racing so hard I was convinced it was about to give out.
There were months back in my second season where I’d sit on the locker room floor after games, back against metal, pretending to scroll on my phone while trying not to black out.
You’re not dying. You’re not in danger. It will pass.
I press my palm flat against my sternum, feeling the thud of my heart. It’s fast, but it’s steady.
Good.
Fuck.
I’ve been through press storms before. Trades. Injuries. Rumors about my shoulder. Rumors about locker-room tension. Analysts questioning my leadership. I’ve stood at podiums while reporters tried to bait me into saying something stupid.
But this one hits somewhere deeper. Somewhere old. Somewhere that remembers being eighteen and sitting at my parents’ kitchen table while my father told me I was making a mistake that would follow me forever by pursuing basketball.
I open my eyes.
You’re not there anymore.
I straighten and push away from the wall when the elevator doors open before my brain can spiral.
Once I’m in my loft, I drop my bag by the door and move automatically.
Shoes off, lined up neatly by the console.
Jacket hung.
Keys in the bowl.
Laundry gathered from the bedroom floor and dumped into the hamper.
It’s all mundane and grounding.
Cotton in my hands. The weight of denim. The creak of the floorboards I know by heart.
I flick on the kitchen lights even though it’s still technically afternoon. The brightness helps. I open a window a crack, letting in cold February air that bites at my skin and keeps me present.
In.
Two. Three. Four.
Out.
Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water.
The sound of it hitting the glass is sharp and normal.
I drink the whole thing in one go, because dehydration makes everything worse.
That’s what the team psychologist told me years ago when I finally admitted the panic attacks weren’t “just adrenaline.”
My hands are steady now. Mostly. I check my pulse again out of habit.
Still fast.
Still fine.
“You’re good,” I mutter to the empty room.
And I am. This isn’t a panic attack. It’s shock, and there’s a difference.
My phone buzzes on the counter and my shoulders jump before I can stop them.
Okay, I’m still a little wired.
I ignore my phone and focus on something else. I need groceries. If I put in an order, that’s a solid task to focus on.
I open the grocery app.
Milk. Eggs. Chicken. Rice. Vegetables. Protein bars.
My thumb hesitates over the frozen section, and I add pizza because fuck it, I deserve pizza. The normalcy of it steadies me further. There’s something powerful about small decisions when everything else feels ripped out of your hands.
I inhale deeper. My phone buzzes again. This time, I take a look. It’s a message from Rafe. I smile before I even look.
Rafe: Made it home?
I type back.
Me: Just got in. Press circus outside. Fans too. Rainbow ones. You’d have liked it.
The three dots appear and vanish. Then appear again.
Rafe: I do like it. You okay?
My chest warms.
Me: Yeah. Just tired.
There’s a pause before my phone buzzes again.
Rafe: Heading into the meeting. Talk later.
Right. AA. He attends once a month.
The pride that hits me is sharp and steady. Eight years ago, that wouldn’t have existed. Eight years ago, I didn’t even fully understand the depth of what he was fighting.
Me: Proud of you.
He doesn’t reply. He won’t have his phone on while he’s in a meeting.
I set mine down and focus on putting dirty clothes into the washer.
The noise fills the silence. Then I sit on the couch and take a real, calmer breath.
My mind immediately goes to Rafe and his parents.
His mom hugging me. His dad shaking my hand like I already belonged.
The way Rafe looked when I said I loved him.
My chest squeezes. My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Cassius.
Cass: Open the door.
I blink. Then I laugh and get up. I don’t even check the camera. I know it’s him. He’s also on the “approved” list of visitors, and there’s no way anyone downstairs will be letting anyone else up.
When I open the door, he’s there in all his six-foot-six glory, holding two massive bags of takeout. “You look like shit,” he says cheerfully.
“Thanks.”
He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. “I bring food and emotional support,” he announces.
I shut the door behind him. “You’re alone?”
“Kid’s asleep and with my parents. Dylan’s on shift. I told him I’d behave.”
“Liar.”
He grins. “Absolutely.”
The smell of food hits me and my stomach growls. “You’re a hero.”
“I know.”
We settle at the kitchen island, containers open and chopsticks at the ready. For a few minutes, we just eat. It’s normal. God, I needed normal.
“So,” Cass says eventually, leaning back in his chair. “How are you actually?”
I swallow. “Not too bad.” We’ve exchanged several texts since I outed myself a few days ago.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Actually, better than that,” I amend.
“That’s what I thought,” he says. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The in-love idiot one.”
I snort. “Shut up.”
He grins. “So it’s real?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit.”
We eat some more.
“Some of the online stuff is rough,” he says carefully.
“I haven’t looked.”
“Good.”
“I don’t do social media.”
“I know. Smartest decision you’ve ever made.” He studies me. “But it’s not all bad,” he adds. “A lot of people are in your corner.”
“That’s… good.”
“It’s more than good. It’s huge.”
I shrug, uncomfortable.
Cassius leans forward. “You know, when I came into the League, I expected it to be hell.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No, it wasn’t. Because I already knew who I was. I didn’t have to wrestle it into shape in public.”
I nod slowly.
“That’s the thing,” he says. “Everyone’s journey is different. Anyone saying you should’ve done this earlier? They don’t get it.”
Relief slides through me.
“Thanks.”
He waves it off. “You don’t owe anyone your timeline.”
We eat in silence again.
“So,” he says. “Tell me about the rock star.”
I can’t help smiling.
Cass whistles. “There it is.”
“He’s… good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
“That man is criminally attractive.”
I choke on my food. “Cass.”
“What? It’s a fact.”
“I’ll tell Dylan you said that.”
He scoffs. “Please. That sheriff of mine already wants tickets and an autograph.”
I laugh.
“He’s also weirdly invested in your love life.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“He says it’s because he likes a good romance.”
“That’s even more terrifying.”
We both laugh. The tension eases. The fear loosens its grip.
I tell him about San Francisco. My new loft. The charity. The plans. I don’t tell him everything. Not yet. But saying Rafe’s name out loud, over and over, feels right. It feels real.
Cass leans back, satisfied. “I’m happy for you,” he says.
“I know.”
He watches me for a second. “And your parents?” he adds casually. “It’s pretty fucked that they said that.”
I freeze. “What?”
We’re halfway through the second container of noodles when Cass’s expression shifts. It’s subtle, but I know him.
“What have they said?” I press.
He hesitates. “That’s actually why I’m here,” he says.
My fork pauses midair. “For the noodles?”
He doesn’t smile. “This is why I’m here,” he repeats, more serious now. “It came out like ten minutes before I got here.”
A cold thread slides down my spine. “What came out?”
He leans back in his chair, studying me carefully like he’s assessing how hard he can hit without knocking me over. “There’s a statement,” he says. “From your parents.”
The room tilts slightly.
“My—what?”
“I didn’t want you to see it alone,” he says quickly. “That’s why I came. I figured you hadn’t checked anything.”
I haven’t. My stomach drops. “What does it say?” I ask.
Cass rubs a hand over his jaw. “It’s… messy.”