Chapter 18 #2
Cassius is waiting outside the loft door, arms folded, posture loose but alert. The moment he sees me, something in his expression shifts—not relief exactly, but confirmation. Like he’d been holding a position and can finally stand down.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
We clasp hands, and he pulls me in for a quick, firm hug that says more than anything verbal would. I know that grip. It’s the grip of someone who stayed when things got loud.
“He’s solid,” Cass says quietly near my ear. “But he’s been solid before.”
That lands harder than he probably intends.
“I know,” I answer.
He nods once and pushes the door open.
The loft is warm and orderly, the kind of space that feels curated rather than decorated. Clean lines. Soft lighting. A faint citrus scent that suggests Ollie scrubbed something recently, probably as a way to burn off energy.
And then I see him.
He’s standing near the kitchen island, phone in hand, a man who I have no doubt is Eric beside him. He looks composed. Centered. His shoulders are squared, jaw set, not pacing, not hollow-eyed.
Relief hits me so suddenly it almost makes me lightheaded.
But I don’t mistake composure for calm. I’ve seen him hold himself together before while something catastrophic was happening under the surface.
“Ollie,” I say.
He turns immediately. There’s a flicker in his eyes—raw and unguarded emotion—before he moves toward me.
We meet halfway across the room, and when his arms wrap around me, they do it with force. Like he needs to verify that I am physically here.
I bury my face in his neck and inhale. “You with me?” I murmur against his skin.
“I’m not spiraling,” he says, and there’s almost disbelief in it. “That’s new.”
The honesty in that makes something ache in my chest. “I’m proud of you,” I tell him quietly.
His grip tightens briefly, then loosens. We turn when Eric steps forward. He’s younger than I expected. Late thirties, early forties. Controlled but not cold. He studies me with professional caution but not suspicion.
“Rafe,” he says, offering his hand.
“Eric.”
His grip is firm. Direct.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he adds.
“I wasn’t going to sit on my hands.”
A faint flicker of approval crosses his expression.
Miles moves in then, hugging Ollie briefly before introducing himself to Eric. There’s a subtle current in that exchange—not hostile, not territorial, but assessing. Two men used to steering crises measuring each other’s competence.
Cassius clears his throat. “I’m gonna head out.”
Ollie looks at him immediately. “You sure?”
“Yeah. You’ve got backup now.” He glances at me. “Training tomorrow. Don’t ghost.”
“I won’t.”
“And home game the night after. So maybe no more international-level bombshells before tip-off?”
Ollie huffs a quiet laugh, and Cassius’s expression softens. He grips Ollie’s shoulder once, grounding, and then he leaves.
The door closes, and the energy shifts.
“Can we get a minute?” I ask.
Ollie nods and leads me down the hallway.
The bedroom is warm tones and spacious. The bed’s made. The whole space feels very much like Ollie. The door shuts behind us.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then he steps forward and kisses me. Our lips touch, the press gentle. His mouth is warm against mine, his hands bracing at my sides as if confirming that this isn’t some stress-fueled hallucination.
When we separate, I guide him toward the bed and sit, pulling him down with me. He lands half across my torso and lets out a quiet sound of amusement.
“You realize I’m not exactly light,” he says.
“I can manage,” I reply.
He settles more fully against me, head resting over my heart. The weight of him feels grounding.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers trace absent patterns against my side.
“I’m angry,” he says at last.
Relief threads through me. “Good,” I say.
He lifts his head slightly. “Good?”
“I understand angry,” I explain. “Angry has edges. It’s solid. I don’t know what to do with numb.”
He considers that and nods. “I wanted the choice,” he continues. “For us to make it together when—if,” he says, as if catching himself, “we were ready to be a married couple.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to correct him with when, but I don’t. I respect that he’s not assuming, even now.
“I wanted to tell the team first. The fans. I didn’t want it ripped out of our hands.”
“They don’t get to decide what happens next,” I say.
He exhales slowly. “We’ll need a statement.”
“Yes.” That’s exactly the plan with Rachael on her way here. We’re tackling this together, as a unit.
“I don’t want it to be defensive or apologetic.”
“Agreed.”
He studies my face. “The separation, what do you think? Do we mention it?” His tone is steady, trying for neutral, but there’s the tiniest quiver I hear.
The words hit, but I don’t flinch. “We don’t owe anyone our history or story. It’s private and ours.”
Ollie’s exhale is a little shaky as he nods. “We focus on now.”
Now.
Not eight years ago. Not rehab. Not the implosion. Now.
“My GM has our back,” he adds, even though I already know this. “The organization issued a general statement of support. No mention of the marriage.”
“That’s smart.” When I read it, I thought they’d done a good job.
“One of my sponsors is wavering,” he says, quieter this time.
“The fuck?” I grind my teeth.
“They’re evaluating ‘brand alignment.’”
It’s a struggle to hold back my sneer. “That’s cowardly.”
“It’s business,” he replies, but there’s strain under the neutrality.
“It’s still cowardly.” I’m keen as fuck to find out which brand are being fuckheads. When I do, I’m sure there’s a way I can mess with them.
He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can see me more clearly.
“This is what I was afraid of,” he says. “The fallout.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you carrying this for me,” he says. “Or for it to force you into a relationship you’re not ready for or may never want.”
For a second, I just look at him. The fact that this is where his mind goes—not to himself, not to the sponsors, not to the team, but to whether he’s trapping me—does something complicated and sharp inside my chest.
“Ollie,” I say slowly, because I need him to hear this without any room for misinterpretation. “Nothing about this is forcing me.”
He works his jaw, like he wants to argue.
“You think I got on a plane because I felt obligated?” I continue. “You think I stood outside your building smiling at cameras because I felt cornered?”
He opens his mouth, but I don’t let him interrupt.
“I am here because I love you,” I say plainly. “I was in before your parents detonated this. I was in before the sponsors started panicking. I was in before you told Eric you’re retiring.”
And that’s the truth of it. I’ve always loved him.
His throat works as he swallows.
“This,” I add, gesturing loosely between us, “is not damage control. It’s not crisis bonding. It’s not PR strategy. It’s you. It’s always been you.”
The room feels very still. Ollie studies me like he’s trying to find the fracture line. The weakness. The hesitation.
“And if it costs you?” he asks quietly.
“It already has,” I answer.
That lands harder than I intend it to. I see it in the way his eyes shift.
“I’m not saying that to guilt you,” I add quickly. “I’m saying it because loving you has never been the safe option. That didn’t stop me then, and it’s not stopping me now.”
He exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the mattress between us.
“I left,” he says. “That’s on me.”
“Yes,” I say, because honesty is the only thing that works anymore. “You did.”
His eyes flick back up, bracing for impact.
“But I wasn’t blameless,” I continue, softer now. “I was drinking too much. I was unraveling. I was asking you to carry something you weren’t built to carry at twenty-one. Or even twenty-four. We were kids pretending we were invincible.”
I let out a quiet breath. “Sure, legally we were adults. But the pressure? The secrecy? The constant calculating? That was next-level. Looking back, I don’t think either of us knew how out of our depth we were.”
Ollie studies me like he’s trying to reconcile the version of me he remembers with the one sitting in front of him now.
“And I was so sure we could outrun it,” I add with a faint, self-aware smile. “Turns out hiding and drinking isn’t actually a long-term strategy.”
One corner of his mouth lifts despite himself. “Groundbreaking revelation.”
“I know. Someone gave me a TED Talk.”
That pulls a small laugh from him, and the sound eases the emotion gripping me.
“I don’t need you protecting me from fallout,” I say more gently. “I need you beside me in it.”
He holds my gaze, steady.
“And if a sponsor walks?” I shrug, deliberately casual. “They walk. You survive. And I’ll find some creative, mildly unhinged way to mess with them.”
His brows lift.
“I’m a petty bitch like that,” I add, deadpan.
He snorts—a real one this time—and shakes his head. “You absolutely are.”
“I won’t do anything illegal,” I clarify solemnly. “Probably.”
“Rafe.”
“I’m kidding,” I say, though I’m only half kidding. “Mostly.”
He’s still smiling, though. And that matters.
“You don’t have to go to war for me,” he says.
“Too late,” I reply lightly. “I’ve already started drafting imaginary speeches in my head.”
“Oh God.”
“Don’t worry. They’re very eloquent. Passionate. Slightly terrifying.”
Ollie laughs again, fuller this time, and the heaviness in the room shifts just enough to let us both breathe.
Then his expression softens. “You’re different,” he says quietly.
“I hope so.”
“No,” he insists. “You are.”
And the way he says it—not accusing, not wary, just… noticing—makes something warm settle low in my chest.
“You make it sound easy,” he says, his smile gentle.
“It’s not,” I admit. “Last night, when that statement hit? My first thought was a drink.”
His eyes sharpen instantly.
“I didn’t,” I add quickly. “I called Miles instead.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens a fraction.