Chapter 18 #3
“I hate that my parents put you in that position,” he says.
“So do I.”
His face shifts at that. Something vulnerable, something younger. We sit in that for a moment.
He reaches up and grips my hand again, like he needs the contact. “I’m not ready for you to carry me,” he says. “Not like before.”
“I’m not offering to carry you,” I answer. “I’m offering to build with you.”
That makes him still.
“There’s a difference,” I add.
He searches my face again.
“You’re retiring,” I say after a moment. “That’s not a small thing. That’s a tectonic shift.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want you doing that for me either.”
“I’m not,” he says immediately. “I was already done. The shoulder. The noise. The constant split life. This just… clarified that I’m absolutely making the right decision.”
I believe him.
“But I don’t want my retirement to be announced and it be tied to our marriage so that people think I’m retiring because I’m ashamed or have done something wrong.”
The words hang there, heavy and sharp.
Fuck.
He’s right.
I hadn’t even let my mind get that far ahead. I’ve been thinking in twelve-hour increments—statements, damage control, containment. I haven’t zoomed out to see the narrative people will try to write for him and for us.
And they will write one.
If those self-righteous assholes thought their carefully worded statement would frame him as deceitful, morally compromised, somehow lesser—if they thought they’d “won” by dragging our marriage into the light without his consent—the idea that it could now taint the end of his career makes something dark and furious coil in my gut.
“No,” I say immediately, sitting up a little. “That doesn’t get to happen.”
Ollie watches me, cautious but steady.
“We control the sequence,” I continue, thinking out loud now. “Your retirement is about your body. Your shoulder. Your legacy. Your choice. It’s not a footnote to your sexuality or our marriage.”
He nods slowly.
“And if anyone tries to spin it that way,” I add, heat creeping into my voice, “we shut that down.”
“With what?” he asks quietly.
“The truth,” I say. “You’ve been playing through pain. You’ve been thinking about this for months. This didn’t blindside you.”
He exhales, some tension leaving his shoulders. “I just don’t want people thinking I’m walking away because I got caught,” he says. “Or because I couldn’t handle it.”
“You’ve handled more than most men ever will,” I reply.
His mouth twitches faintly, but there’s still a shadow there. “I worked too hard for this,” he continues. “I don’t want the last chapter of my career to be rewritten by a statement I didn’t even consent to.”
That hits. Because that’s the real wound, isn’t it? Not just being outed. Not just being exposed. It’s losing authorship of your own story.
“We get ahead of it,” I say. “Not reactionary. Strategic.”
Ollie arches a brow. “Since when are you strategic?”
“Since I learned the hard way that emotional chaos is a terrible PR plan.”
That earns me a small smile.
“I’m serious,” I continue. “We talk to Rachael. We talk to Eric. We decide how and when you announce retirement. Not under pressure. Not as a reaction. On your timeline.”
He studies me carefully. “You’re very calm about this,” he says.
“I’m not calm,” I admit. “I’m furious. But I’m not letting them turn this into something it isn’t.”
His jaw tenses again—not in anger this time, but in resolve. “I want to finish strong,” he says. “Play the rest of the season. Be captain. Show up. Not disappear.”
“And you will.”
“And then I retire because I’m ready,” he says firmly. “Not because someone forced my hand.”
I nod. “That’s the narrative,” I say. “And we stick to it.”
There’s a quiet beat.
“You know,” he says after a moment, voice softer, “for years I thought coming out would destroy everything.”
“And?”
“It hasn’t,” he admits. “It’s messy. It’s loud. But I’m still here. The team still has my back. You’re still here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him.
Ollie looks at me for a long moment. “Part of me hates that it happened like this,” he says. “But another part is relieved the secret’s gone.”
That surprises me. “Relieved?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I don’t have to calculate every sentence anymore. I don’t have to lie by omission. It’s done.”
I reach for his hand. “That’s freedom,” I say.
“It doesn’t feel triumphant,” he replies.
“It doesn’t have to,” I answer. “It just has to be honest.”
He considers that.
“And if your parents thought they’d win by dragging us into the open,” I add, unable to keep the edge from my voice, “then they miscalculated. Because now we get to decide what this looks like.”
He watches me carefully, something steady building behind his eyes. “You really are all in,” he says.
“I’ve always been all in,” I reply. “I just never had the chance to stand still.”
My words pull a soft smile from him.
“So,” I say after a moment, “we don’t let them stain your retirement. We don’t let them rewrite your career. And we don’t let anyone reduce this to a scandal.”
He squeezes my hand. “And if someone tries?”
I tilt my head slightly. “Then I release a new single called ‘Brand Alignment’ and make a fortune off their hypocrisy.”
He huffs a breath that’s half amusement, half disbelief.
“That and we go to the competitors of the brand that’s even contemplating ending your contract and sign with them for free.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Probably.”
But the tension has shifted now. It’s still here—the anger, the uncertainty, the looming media cycle—but it’s no longer directionless. It has direction.
And for the first time since this exploded, it feels like we’re not reacting. We’re planning.