Chapter 19 #2
Rachael taps the pad. “Okay,” she says. “Then we build around that. Joint statement, no interviews, privacy request. Then we’ll have one controlled follow-up option if necessary—like a short written Q&A for a reputable outlet—to address the retirement timing so it doesn’t get tied to shame.”
Rafe’s eyes narrow. “No interviews,” he repeats.
“Written Q&A isn’t an interview,” Rachael counters calmly. “It’s controlled. It lets Ollie address the narrative about retirement without being cornered by someone with a microphone.”
I swallow. “I don’t want to label anything,” I say quietly. “Not my sexuality. People already assume I’m gay. That’s fine. But I don’t want to be forced into a version of myself that exists for strangers.”
Eric nods. “We can state that you’re not discussing labels. That your private identity is your own.”
Rachael adds, “And we can say you’re focused on your season, and once your retirement is announced, that it has nothing to do with any of this.”
I flick my gaze to Rafe. “It hasn’t.”
It’s a reminder—a promise—that I will be retiring, no matter what.
Miles calls from the kitchen again, deliberately loud. “Also, just to be clear, if anyone tries to do a ‘shock confession’ interview, I will personally throw pasta at them.”
Rachael’s head turns. “Excuse me?”
Miles walks into view, wooden spoon in hand, wearing the apron like he’s trying to win an argument through domestic intimidation.
“I’m saying,” he continues, very seriously, “that you are both allowed to have boundaries. And if anyone crosses those boundaries, I’ll become a carbohydrate-based weapon. ”
Eric looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned. Rafe snorts once. I can’t help it. I laugh, too, the sound rough but real. It releases tension in my body I’ve been holding too carefully.
Rachael exhales, a little smile tugging at her mouth. “Thanks, Miles.”
“Anytime,” he says, and goes back to the stove like he didn’t just threaten assault with linguine.
Eric clears his throat, refocusing. “We also need to talk about the team,” he says. “Ollie, you’ve already spoken to PR. They’re supportive, which is what we all expected. Now we need to touch base with the GM. Today.”
I nod. “I know.”
“And you’ll need to talk to the team,” Rachael adds, “but not right now. Not while you’re in shock. We can schedule that. You’ll do it in your own words.”
Rafe’s grip intensifies. “He’s not losing his captaincy,” he says, voice sharp.
Eric blinks. “No one said—”
“I’m saying it anyway,” Rafe replies, and there’s a flare in his eyes that makes me want to touch his face just to calm him. “Because if anyone tries, I will—”
“Murder,” Miles calls from the kitchen.
Rafe’s mouth twitches despite himself.
Rachael holds up a hand. “No one is removing his captaincy,” she says. “The team’s statement was supportive. The GM is supportive. The League has multiple out players, including Ollie’s team. It would be a PR nightmare to punish him.”
I swallow. “I told HR that I would understand if they did,” I admit quietly.
Rafe’s head snaps toward me. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I’ve been trained to accept consequences,” I say, and I hate the truth of it. “To preemptively offer what they might take anyway. It’s a defense mechanism.”
Eric’s expression shifts—recognition, maybe. “We’re not doing that anymore,” he says firmly. “You don’t negotiate against yourself.”
Rafe’s thumb rubs over my knuckles again, but this time it’s not just soothing. It’s possessive. Like he’s anchoring me to the fact that I’m not alone in the room.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Rachael leans back slightly. “Now,” she says, “we need to address one more thing.”
I brace.
“The wedding,” she continues, and there’s something almost amused in her tone, like she can’t quite believe she’s saying this out loud. “Do wedding photos exist?”
I blink. “Yes.”
Eric’s brows rise. “How many?”
“A few,” I hedge.
Rafe’s mouth quirks, but his eyes stay on me, sharp and watchful. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. Photos are proof. Photos are history. Photos are vulnerability I never let exist anywhere but locked away.
What he probably doesn’t realize is that sometimes those photos are the only thing that kept me from unraveling. The only thing that reminded me we were real.
Rachael lifts a hand. “Before you panic—no one is asking you to release them. I’m asking because tabloids will dig. They’ll try to find witnesses. The chapel. The clerk. The paperwork.”
Miles reappears with a spoon like he’s been summoned by the word photos. “Wait,” he says. “Are we talking wedding photos? Because I have been waiting for this moment for, like, a decade.”
Rafe turns his head. “Miles—”
“What?” Miles says, completely unrepentant. “I’m happy. It’s called joy.”
Eric looks between him and Rachael like he’s trying to determine whether this is normal. Honestly, it’s not. Well, the sarcasm is, but I think without the backup of the guys, Miles is stepping up.
Rachael’s eyes gleam. “Miles, please.”
Miles ignores her and points the spoon at me. “You know what this means, right?”
I stare at him. “No.”
“It means,” he says with relish, “you can finally print them and put them on display.”
The room goes still.
Rachael’s expression freezes. Eric’s face goes politely blank. Rafe makes a strangled sound that might be laughter.
I blink. “What?”
“Yes,” Miles continues, nodding enthusiastically. “Frame them. Hang them. Put them on shelves. Like normal people. Maybe next to a tasteful candle.”
“We are not advising—” Rachael begins.
“And also,” Miles adds, leaning in conspiratorially, “I assume the photos we didn’t take in the chapel are wildly inappropriate.”
My brain short-circuits. “Miles.”
“What?” he repeats. “It was your wedding night. Emotions. Romance. A little scandal.”
Eric coughs, clearly trying not to laugh.
Rachael presses her lips together. “There is no scandal, remember?”
I let out a short laugh despite everything, the tension cracking open for a second.
Miles points at me triumphantly. “See? He’s laughing. Healing.”
I drag a hand over my mouth. “There are no inappropriate photos.”
Miles looks at Rafe, deeply skeptical. “Rafe?”
Rafe stares back at him, deadpan. “There are photos of us fully clothed. Smiling. You know. Since you were there.”
Miles sighs. “Tragic.”
Rachael exhales and shakes her head, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth now.
“All right. Enough. We are not discussing garters. However, Miles’s first point stands.
Not about display—about existence. If those photos exist, we need to secure them.
No cloud backups. No shared drives. No accidental leaks. ”
Rafe’s gaze returns to me, serious again. “Mine are. Are yours safe?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “External drive. Password protected. Not connected to anything.”
He nods once.
Emotion twists in my chest so hard it almost hurts.
This isn’t what I planned. None of this is. But the truth presses forward anyway.
“Hey,” Rafe says quietly. “What is it?”
My gaze snaps to his. His hand tightens around mine.
“I want evidence of our life,” I say, voice rougher than I expected. “I want framed photos. Those four years we had…” The words tangle, but I force myself to keep going. To stop hiding. To give him everything. “They were the best years of my life.”
He blinks slowly. His eyes darken, piercing.
“I know it wasn’t perfect,” I continue. “But I love you. I always have. I want those memories where we can see them. I want proof of how I feel about you to exist in the open. The world knowing we’re married…
that part? It’s good. It’s the way it happened that isn’t.
It’s the implication about my character that makes me fucking furious. ”
Miles snorts from the kitchen at my swearing.
I don’t look away from Rafe. “I don’t regret marrying you,” I say. “Or falling for you. And when you’re ready—if you’re ever ready—I want everything with you.”
Silence settles around the table. I can feel everyone watching, but I don’t care. All I see is him.
Something shifts in Rafe’s expression. Heat. Hunger. Emotion so raw it almost knocks the air out of me.
He stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.
“Rafe,” Rachael begins, already knowing.
But Rafe doesn’t let go of my hand. He strengthens his hold on me and hauls me to my feet like he’s done waiting.
“Rafe—” I start, breath catching.
“We’ll finish this later,” he says to the room without looking away from me.
Miles calls from the kitchen, “Dinner in ten minutes! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“That’s not a high bar,” Rachael mutters while Rafe shouts, “Eat without us.”
Eric presses his lips together, clearly fighting a smile.
Rachael sighs. “We’ll pick this up later.”
Rafe doesn’t answer. He’s already pulling me down the hall.
The second the bedroom door shuts behind us, he’s on me.
His hands are everywhere at once—my face, my neck, my waist—as his mouth crashes into mine, the kiss hard and desperate and full of everything he didn’t say in front of them.
I gasp into his mouth, grabbing at his shirt as he backs me toward the bed.
There’s no finesse. No hesitation. Just heat and need and the overwhelming force of eight years collapsing into the present.
His fingers hook into my waistband. Mine drag his shirt over his head.
“Fuck, Ollie,” he breathes against my mouth, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
My heart pounds. My hands shake as I reach for him again. And when he kisses me like he means to undo me completely, I let him.
I don’t pull back. I don’t overthink it. I just lean in.
My palms slide over his shoulders, down his back, relearning him even though I already have.
We’ve been here before—since reconnecting, since tearing the distance apart piece by piece—but something about this feels different.
Quieter. Surer. Like we’ve crossed a line neither of us is pretending not to see.
He’s here.
Not temporary. Not fragile.
Here.