Chapter 17 #2
That word lands heavy. “How messy?”
He looks at me for a long moment. “Ollie,” he says quietly, “you need to brace yourself before you read it.”
I blow out a breath. “Cass, just tell me.”
He exhales slowly. “It’s bad.”
Silence stretches between us. Outside, I can still hear the faint murmur of press on the sidewalk. The hum of the city. Normal life. Inside, something shifts.
“What kind of bad?” I ask again.
Cass reaches for his phone but doesn’t unlock it yet. “The kind,” he says carefully, “that makes people pick sides.”
The words hang in the air.
And suddenly, I know this isn’t about disappointment. It isn’t about vague disapproval. It’s bigger than that.
I set my fork down slowly. “Show me,” I say.
Cass unlocks his phone like it’s a weapon he hates having to hand me. “You don’t have to read it,” he says.
“Yes, I do,” I reply, even though my stomach has already started free-falling.
He turns the screen toward me.
At first, it’s just a headline—one of those clean, clinical entertainment-news fonts that makes everything look like a product. I don’t even register the outlet. I register the names.
Marshall Family Statement
Oliver Marshall and Rafael Ortiz
My vision narrows. My pulse slams, and Cass watches my face like he’s ready to catch me if I tip over.
I scroll.
The statement is… measured. That’s the first thing that lands.
No slurs. No religious quotes. No “we do not condone.” No ranting about morality. If anything, it’s written the way wealthy people apologize—polished, curated, like the goal is to look reasonable while still cutting you open.
They start with a paragraph about privacy. Then a paragraph about “respect.” Then—like they’re dropping a fact about the weather—
They confirm it. They confirm us.
They confirm that I married Rafe Ortiz, twelve years ago.
My hands go numb so fast my fingers almost stop working. I have to strengthen my grip on the phone because suddenly I can’t trust my body to do basic things.
Cass mutters, “Fucking assholes,” under his breath.
I keep reading because I can’t stop. They say they “wish Oliver happiness,” that they “hope both men find peace,” that they “respect all adults’ right to live as they choose.”
It’s all careful, clean, and unassailable.
Then the knife slides in.
They condemn me. Not for being gay, but for “deception,” for “dishonesty.” Then for “misleading his teammates, organization, and fans.” And for “building a brand on integrity while hiding major personal truths.” And finally for “betraying the trust placed in him as a leader.”
My throat closes. My vision blurs at the edges. All I can think is: They did it on purpose.
They didn’t have to say anything about our marriage. They could have said nothing. They could have stayed out of it like they’ve stayed out of my life for almost a decade.
But this? This isn’t accidental. Fuck, it feels calculated. I swear this is them finding the one way to hurt me without looking hateful.
They didn’t attack my sexuality. They’re too close to the governor for that. Instead, they attacked my character. And they used Rafe as collateral damage.
My thumb keeps scrolling like I’m searching for the part where it turns into a joke. It doesn’t.
Cass’s voice is tense. “That’s… that’s brutal.”
I stare at the last line. Some sterile sentence about “wishing for accountability.”
My stomach lurches like my body wants to reject the whole thing. I lock his phone and just… sit here.
The room feels too bright, too loud, even though nothing has changed. Even though the washing machine hum is the only real sound, and Cass is staring at me like he’s ready to throw hands at two people he’s never met.
My own phone is on the counter.
Face down and on silent.
I flip it over. The screen lights up, and my blood turns to ice.
Missed calls. Notifications. Text previews stacked like a tower.
A dozen.
Two dozen.
More.
Eric.
Lindy.
Marco.
Jayden.
Sutton.
Unknown numbers.
Team staff.
A few teammates who normally don’t text me unless it’s about golf or a fantasy league.
My breath goes shallow. The world doesn’t wait. The world doesn’t give you time to breathe.
Cass’s voice is gentle now. “Ollie.”
I look at him like I don’t recognize my own kitchen.
“You don’t have to do everything right now,” he says.
But I do. Because it’s already out. It’s already everywhere. It’s already moving faster than I can.
I scroll until I find the name that matters most.
Rafe. There are three missed calls and one text. My hands shake when I open it.
Rafe: Call me. Now. Please.
The please guts me.
I hit Call before I can talk myself out of it. It rings once. Twice. He answers on the second ring.
“Ollie.” His voice is low and controlled.
“Hey,” I say, and it comes out broken.
There’s a pause, like he’s holding himself back from launching into a thousand things at once.
He lands on: “Talk to me, baby.”
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half sob. “Fuck. It’s bad.”
“Hey,” he says, steadying. “I’ve got you. Talk to me.”
I close my eyes hard. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t—this isn’t what I wanted—”
“Stop.” The word cracks sharp. Not at me. At the situation. At the universe.
I open my eyes, and Cass is watching me with a fury that looks almost protective.
Rafe’s voice drops lower. “This is not on you.”
“It’s my parents,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says, and the anger in those two words makes my stomach flip. “I saw it.”
My words stall. “They outed… our marriage.”
“I know,” he says, and then there’s a beat—his breath changing—like he’s trying not to say something violent.
“Rafe—”
“I’m pissed,” he says, blunt. “I’m so fucking pissed at them, Ollie.”
The relief of hearing that—of hearing him angry on our behalf—hits me so hard I almost sag in my chair.
“I’m jumping on the first flight tomorrow,” he says.
My heart stutters. “You don’t have to—”
A familiar sound comes through the line, the one I’ve always heard when he’s rolling his eyes without needing to say it.
“Ollie.”
“Rafe, it’s not fair—”
“It’s not about fair,” he says. “It’s about you being alone in that house with cameras outside and the entire internet dissecting your life.”
“I’m not alone,” I say quickly, because I need him to know it.
Cass lifts a brow like damn right.
“Cass is here,” I add. “He came over. He brought food. He’s—” I swallow hard. “He’s being Cass.”
Rafe exhales, relief threaded through tension. “That’s good.” They’ve never met before, but I shared some of the texts I received from Cassius over the past few days.
Then, unexpectedly, his voice shifts. Softer. “Cass,” he calls, like he’s speaking toward the room. I switch my phone to loudspeaker.
Cass leans forward instinctively, as if the phone is a doorway. “Yeah?”
“Can you stay?” Rafe asks, and it’s not a rock star asking. It’s a man asking for something simple and human. “Just… until I get there?”
Cass doesn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely.”
The ridiculousness of it—Rafe asking my teammate to babysit me—should make me bristle. Instead, it makes my eyes burn.
“Thank you,” Rafe says quietly.
Cass shrugs like he isn’t affected, but his jaw is tight. “No problem.”
Rafe’s attention returns to me. “We’re going to talk tomorrow,” he says, and there’s steel under the softness now. “You, me, Eric. And Rachael.”
My stomach twists.
“We have to get ahead of this,” he continues. “We have to control what we can. You’ll talk to the GM, but not until Eric preps it. You hear me?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“And Ollie,” he adds, voice firm, “we’re not going to let them spin this into you being some kind of lying monster.”
My throat closes. He doesn’t know how much those words matter. Because the statement didn’t just expose me. It tried to rewrite me. To make my silence into a moral failing instead of a survival tactic. To make me a villain instead of a scared kid who never got a road map.
Rafe says my name again. “Ollie.”
“Yeah.”
“You agree to telling Eric and Rachael everything?”
The question lands heavy. Because for years, Eric’s asked. Carefully at first, then more directly, then with frustration that he tried to hide. And I kept dodging, kept compartmentalizing, kept pretending I could keep the truth boxed up forever.
I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say. “Yes. I agree.”
There’s relief in Rafe’s silence, like he’s been bracing for me to refuse. “Good,” he says finally. “We do it right. No more half-truths.”
My chest aches. “All right,” I whisper.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. Then, softer, like he can’t help it, “I’m with you.”
“I know,” I say, and I mean it.
We hang up. For a second, the quiet rushes back in. Cass watches me for a beat.
“You want me to punch them?” he asks flatly. “Maybe I can speak to Dylan, get them arrested for some shit. People like that are bound to have more than a few skeletons in their closets.”
I huff a laugh that comes out wrong. “Maybe later.”
He nods like he’ll pencil it in.
My phone is still lighting up with messages. My hands are still shaking. But something in me has shifted. I’m not calm or even at peace, despite Rafe’s support and knowing I’ll see him again tomorrow. Instead, determination builds in my chest.
I scroll until I find Eric’s name. I stare at it for a long second.
For years, Eric’s been asking for the truth. Now the truth has been ripped into the open without my permission, so I’m going to take it back.
I’m going to speak first. I’m going to own it.
I hit Call. The line rings, and my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Cass sits across from me, solid and silent, while outside, the press is still there. Inside, though, I inhale, hold steady, and decide I’m done letting anyone else tell my story.