Chapter 20
RAFE
The first thing I notice when we come back into the main space in Ollie’s impressive-as-fuck loft is that Miles hasn’t burned anything.
This shouldn’t be impressive. It absolutely is.
He’s at the stove, sleeves pushed up, stirring something that smells like garlic and citrus and comfort.
Eric and Rachael are seated at the table, laptops open, the kind of quiet, contained energy in the room that comes from professionals who’ve seen every kind of disaster and know exactly how to survive them.
Ollie’s hand is still in mine. I don’t let go.
No one comments on it.
They do, however, look up in unison, their expressions shifting from businesslike to something warmer. Knowing. Not intrusive, but present. There’s relief there. And maybe a little vindication. They’ve been in the trenches with us for years, even if they didn’t know the full truth.
Miles glances over his shoulder. “You’re back. Good. Dinner in five. Or ten. Or whenever I stop pretending I know what I’m doing.”
Ollie huffs a quiet laugh beside me, the sound low and surprised, like he’s still adjusting to the fact that laughter is allowed today.
Rachael closes her laptop. “All right. Let’s finish this.”
The conversation that follows is practical.
Relationship logistics. Public perception. Privacy boundaries. What we say. What we don’t.
It’s strange hearing our lives discussed in this way, like a strategic rollout, but it’s also reassuring. Structure, containment, and a path forward is usually not my MO. Today it actually makes sense and fits.
I’m not sure who’s more surprised, me or Rachael, when I agree to everything without argument or sass.
Rachael and Eric don’t lecture. They don’t scold. They don’t question why we didn’t tell them. That part alone feels like grace.
The plan becomes clear.
We’re married. That fact exists now whether we like it or not.
We’re rebuilding. That part stays private.
We won’t lie. We won’t overshare.
We’ll be photographed. There will be speculation. We’ll let it exist without feeding it.
We won’t give interviews about our relationship.
We will protect sobriety, mental health, and the remainder of Ollie’s season.
We will deal with fallout as it comes.
By the time the discussion ends, the air in the room feels lighter. Not because the situation is better, but because it’s contained.
Miles finally sets food on the table like he’s performing a miracle. “Eat,” he orders.
We do.
Dinner is loud in the best way. Miles tells a story about nearly setting fire to a hotel kitchen in Tokyo.
Rachael counters with one about negotiating a press embargo at three in the morning while Eli slept through the crisis.
Eric is dry, sharp, unexpectedly funny. Ollie relaxes by degrees, shoulders lowering, his body leaning into mine without even seeming to notice.
The tension of the past forty-eight hours doesn’t disappear. But it loosens.
Afterward, Eric and Rachael leave to take calls, stepping onto the balcony with headsets and clipped professionalism. Miles clears dishes with efficient competence that makes clear this is not, in fact, his first time doing this.
Ollie and I drift to the couch.
The quiet that settles between us is different from the earlier tension. It’s a lot softer.
I lean back, stretching, and reach for the guitar case I brought without really thinking. It’s muscle memory and always provides instant comfort.
Ollie watches me.
“You always bring that?” he asks.
“Almost,” I say. “Keeps me out of trouble.”
He smiles faintly. “Debatable.”
I snort and open the case, running my hand over the familiar wood before lifting the guitar into my lap.
The first chord rings warm and steady in the room. I don’t even think about what I’m playing. My fingers fall into patterns I’ve known for years.
Ollie goes still.
“That one,” he says quietly.
I glance up. “Yeah.”
He swallows. “You never played it for me.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t. For years it was too raw, too sharp. It belonged to absence, to silence, to the shape of him missing from my life.
“You weren’t there,” I say simply.
His gaze drops. “I know.”
Silence stretches, and I let it.
Then he says, almost shy, “I’ve been playing again.”
That surprises me. “You have?”
He nods. “Recently.”
“Why?”
He hesitates. “Because it was something that used to be… ours.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. “Get it,” I say.
He blinks. “What?”
“Your guitar.”
He studies my face, like he’s trying to decide if this is a test. Then he pushes up and disappears down the hall.
When he comes back, he’s holding an acoustic I’ve never seen before. It’s good quality. Not flashy, but solid.
“New?” I ask.
He nods. “A couple of months.”
He sits across from me, shifting awkwardly like he’s suddenly self-conscious.
“Play,” I say.
He exhales and strums. The opening of “My Stupid Heart” fills the room.
It hits differently when he plays it. Not just because he knows exactly where the weight of each chord sits. Not just because his hands are bigger, rougher, shaped by a different kind of discipline. But because he knows what the song is.
He knows it’s him. He knows it’s what I bled into music when I couldn’t speak.
When he reaches the second progression, he stops. “That line,” he says quietly. “About midnight doors.”
“Yeah.”
His gaze meets mine. “You waited.”
I shrug, but it’s not casual. “For a while.”
“For how long?”
“Longer than I should have.”
He looks wrecked.
“I used to sit on the floor,” he admits. “After games. With my phone. Thinking about calling you.”
I still. “And why didn’t you?”
“Because I thought if I heard your voice, I wouldn’t be able to do what I’d convinced myself I had to do.”
The honesty in that moment is almost unbearable.
“Idiot,” I say, but it’s soft.
“Yeah.”
We sit in that truth for a long time. Eventually, I start playing again. He joins in.
We talk between songs.
He tells me about his teammates learning he’s gay and the calls he’s had this week. About the relief. About the unexpected normalcy. About Cassius bringing takeout and refusing to leave.
I tell him about the first time I went to AA after rehab. About how I sat in the parking lot for forty minutes before going inside. About the way Miles didn’t speak, just sat with me.
We talk about small things too.
The worst hotel rooms. The best cities. The time Eli nearly got arrested in Barcelona. The time Ollie accidentally dyed his entire load of laundry pink on a road trip.
He laughs, a sound that wraps around me and that I savor. Was it really just a few months ago that I never thought I’d get the chance to hear that sound again?
At one point, he shifts closer without noticing. Our knees touch. Neither of us moves away.
There’s no urgency now. No pressure. Just presence.
At some point, Miles reappears, leaning against the doorway with a soft, almost surprised smile. “You two sound good.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I say.
“Too late,” Miles replies.
Ollie glances between us, mouth curving. “You know,” he says mildly, “if you behave, I might teach you a few tricks.”
Miles pauses. “That sounds threatening.”
“It is,” Ollie says, deadpan.
I snort. “He has none. Don’t fall for it.”
Ollie’s eyes flick to mine, warm and wicked in a way that lands somewhere low in my gut. “I didn’t say what kind of tricks.”
My brain, traitor that it is, immediately supplies several extremely inappropriate possibilities.
The image hits fast and vivid—his hands, his mouth, the look he gets right before he wrecks me—and I almost choke on my own breath.
Ollie watches my expression change. His brows lift. Then, slowly, realization dawns, and he blushes.
It starts at the collar of his shirt and creeps upward, warm and unmistakable, coloring his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. The same blush that first caught my attention over twelve years ago. The same one that made me want to know exactly what thoughts could undo a man that composed.
Miles looks between us. “I feel like I missed something.”
“You did,” I say quickly.
Ollie clears his throat, looking suddenly very interested in his guitar. “Ignore him.”
“I am,” Miles says, unconvinced.
But the room settles again, the warmth lingering, the quiet between us charged in a way that feels both familiar and entirely new.
And I can’t stop thinking about those tricks.
Later, after Miles disappears and the city outside the windows hums with distant life, Ollie looks at me, serious.
“This feels… normal.”
The word lands heavier than anything else tonight. “Yeah,” I say.
He studies me. “I didn’t think we’d ever get this.”
“Me neither.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing my wrist. “I want this,” he says.
“So do I.”
The second I step out of the car outside the training facility, the air slices through my coat and settles somewhere behind my ribs. It’s the kind of February cold that makes the sky look metallic and the world feel slightly suspended. I tuck my hands into my pockets and scan the entrance.
There are cameras everywhere.
While it’s not the chaotic swarm from yesterday, there are enough to make a point. Enough to remind me that this is no longer private. That it hasn’t been for days.
I could have had Vinny drop me at the underground garage. It would have been smarter. Quieter. But I didn’t want that today. I wanted to be here, visible and waiting.
The doors slide open, and Ollie steps out.
He’s in team sweats, gym bag over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. He spots me almost immediately, and fuck, I’m a chump. My smile is immediate. There’s a flicker in his expression—relief, something warmer—and for a moment, it feels like we’re the only two people in the parking lot.
Then the shutters start firing. The sound is sharp in the cold air.
Ollie doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight toward me. “Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
It’s such an ordinary word for something that doesn’t feel ordinary at all.
His gaze flicks briefly toward the cameras, then back to me. “You good?”