Chapter 21 #2
We start toward the back corridor that leads to the player exit. Staff and arena security hover in the periphery, giving us space while also making it clear they’re present. The Eagles run a tight ship. Tonight they’re running it even tighter.
As we round a corner, Vinny appears like he’s been summoned by a disturbance in the force. He’s dressed in black, earpiece in, expression flat in a way that reads calm until you know what calm looks like on him. Miles is beside him, grinning at me.
Vinny gives Rafe a look, then me. “Car’s ready,” he says.
Rafe’s hand doesn’t leave mine. “Any issues?” he asks.
“Nothing inside,” Vinny replies. “Outside is a different story.”
I don’t need him to elaborate. I can already hear it—the distant roar of voices somewhere beyond the secure doors, the muffled thud of bodies pressing closer, the staccato of camera shutters that seems to exist even when you can’t see the cameras yet.
Rafe glances at me, a silent check-in.
I nod once.
We reach the exit corridor and the noise spikes like someone turned a dial. Even behind the doors, it’s loud. The kind of loud that doesn’t feel celebratory so much as hungry.
The door swings open and cold air hits my face, sharp and immediate.
Flashbulbs go off in a chain reaction. People shout my name. Rafe’s name. Questions fly so fast they blur into each other.
“Ollie! Why lie to your team?”
“How long have you been married?”
“Is this a stunt?”
“Do you have any words for your fans about lying to them about being gay?”
I keep walking, shoulders squared, grip firm on Rafe’s hand. It would be easy to flinch, to drop his fingers and create distance out of habit.
I don’t. The habit isn’t in charge anymore.
Rafe stays close, posture relaxed in that practiced way of his. He doesn’t antagonize. He doesn’t grin for the cameras. He doesn’t put on the stage persona that could cut a crowd in half with a look. He’s just… present.
Vinny moves ahead of us, clearing the path with his body and his authority. Another security guard flanks our other side, next to Miles, who’s shooting death stares at the reporters who shout the most stupid questions. Vinny’s SUV idles at the curb, engine low and steady.
We get in quickly. The door shuts, and the world quiets.
For a few seconds, none of us speak. The adrenaline is still in my blood, buzzing at the edges. My hands are steady, but my heart is loud. I don’t like how much the noise followed me inside my own skin.
Rafe turns toward me, eyebrows drawn slightly. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
His gaze holds mine until the automatic answer feels too thin.
I inhale. Let it out slowly. “I’m here,” I correct. “That was… a lot.”
“Yeah,” he says, and something in his voice softens. “You did good.”
My breath catches in a way that feels almost ridiculous. I clear it and turn toward the window instead, watching the city blur past in streaks of white and amber once the SUV has pulled away from the curb.
From the other side of Rafe, Miles shifts in his seat. “You didn’t just do good,” he says evenly. “You were composed.”
I glance back at him.
He’s not grinning. Not teasing. His expression is thoughtful, assessing in that calm, logistics-first way he defaults to when things are unstable.
“You walked out holding his hand,” Miles continues, nodding toward Rafe. “You didn’t react to the bait questions. You didn’t speed up. You didn’t look down. That matters.”
I hadn’t even thought about those details. They’d been instinct, muscle memory, something I chose without consciously choosing it.
“It didn’t feel that deliberate,” I admit.
“That’s the point,” Miles says. “It means you weren’t performing. You were just… there.”
Rafe’s thumb brushes over my knuckles once, subtle but grounding.
I let that sit for a moment.
Miles leans back against the seat, exhaling through his nose. “Also,” he adds, tone shifting just enough to ease the air, “if the visiting section wants to boo every time you score, that sounds like a cardio problem for them.”
A faint laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Rafe snorts softly. “He did feed off it a little.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” Miles says. “Fourth quarter, you hit that baseline pull-up and looked directly at them.”
“I did not look directly at them.”
“You looked adjacent,” Rafe amends, lips curving faintly.
Heat creeps up my neck. “I was looking at the clock.”
Miles raises a brow. “Sure.”
The teasing is gentle, deliberate. Not dismissive of what just happened, but not letting it swallow the space either.
I roll my shoulders once, feeling the last of the adrenaline taper. “It was loud,” I say, quieter now. “But not how I thought it would be.”
Rafe studies me. “Worse?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Cleaner.”
That’s the only word that fits. The boos were boos. The cheers were cheers. Nothing coded. Nothing sharp enough to slice open something old.
Miles nods slowly. “That’s because you took the narrative back.”
I glance at him. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You played,” he says simply. “And you didn’t shrink.”
The word lands heavier than I expect.
Rafe’s squeezes my hand. Not possessive, not urgent. Just present.
Outside, the arena lights fade behind us, swallowed by the winter dark. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a reminder that the outside world is still spinning at full speed, but for this moment, in the insulated quiet of the car, it feels contained.
I let my head tip back against the seat.
“I’m okay,” I say again, and this time it feels less like reassurance and more like truth.
Rafe watches me for another second before nodding. Miles doesn’t say anything else, but I can feel it in the way he settles back, satisfied.
We survived the first one.
And maybe that’s more important than any headline waiting to break.
I’m thinking of the rainbow flags. The kid’s sign. The woman mouthing, “Thank you.” I’m thinking of how the boos didn’t matter as much as I thought they would.
Vinny’s voice cuts in from the front seat. “We need to revisit the restraining order.”
The reality settles like a cold hand on the back of my neck.
Rafe’s head turns toward the front immediately. “What now?”
Vinny’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching mine for half a second. He doesn’t look alarmed. That’s what alarms me.
“It’s not a new incident,” Vinny says. “Not yet. But something surfaced.”
My stomach churns as Rafe asks, “What surfaced?”
Vinny doesn’t answer right away. He reaches into the center console, pulls out his phone, taps the screen a few times, then extends it backward without taking his eyes off the road.
A news alert fills the display.
My name is in it. Rafe’s name is in it.
And beneath the headline is her face.
Even in a thumbnail she looks unhinged—eyes red-rimmed, hair pulled tight, expression too intense for something that should have been over.
EXCLUSIVE: ‘I WAS BETRAYED’ — WOMAN INVOLVED IN ORTIZ INCIDENT SPEAKS OUT
My pulse stutters, and Rafe’s fingers squeeze mine.
I scroll without thinking. There’s a short, embedded clip. Bright studio lights. A podcast backdrop. She’s talking fast, hands cutting through the air, mascara slightly smudged like she wants to look fragile but not undone.
A caption runs along the bottom.
“He promised me… and then he chose him.”
My vision narrows. Anger hits first. Sharp and immediate. Then something colder creeps in underneath it.
Vinny takes the phone back. “Legal’s already looped in. Rachael knows. Police are aware. But if she’s giving interviews, she’s not done.”
Rafe’s jaw clenches. “She shouldn’t have access to press.”
“It’s not hard,” Vinny replies evenly. “Not when there’s a story people can monetize.”
Miles leans forward slightly from the seat beside Rafe. His voice is calm, but there’s a harder edge under it now. “Was she actually charged?” he asks. “Or just detained?”
Vinny nods once. “Charged. Assault with a deadly weapon. Bail was posted.”
“Jesus,” Miles mutters.
I stare at the back of the passenger seat.
Charged.
Bail posted.
Interview booked.
Part of me feels stupid for how my body reacted in that moment at the gala. For how my heart tried to punch through my ribs.
She was small. Five-foot-something. Maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. I have at least eighty pounds on her. Probably more. I could bench her without warming up.
And yet—
The flash of silver had felt enormous.
The intent behind it had felt enormous.
“I should have seen it sooner,” I say quietly.
Rafe turns toward me immediately. “Seen what?”
“That she wasn’t just angry. She was—” I struggle for the word. “Disconnected.”
Miles shakes his head. “You’re not a threat assessment unit, Ollie.”
I huff a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “She’s tiny.”
“And she had a knife,” Rafe snaps, not at me, but at the thought. “Size doesn’t matter.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But there’s something about the physical imbalance that makes me feel ridiculous. I’ve been hit harder on the court by guys built like trucks. I’ve played through dislocated fingers and torn ligaments. I’ve absorbed elbows that left bruises blooming for weeks.
And that slip of a woman with shaking hands nearly unraveled everything.
The memory surfaces again—her eyes locked on Rafe, not on me. The fury when I touched him.
“You don’t get to touch him.”
My stomach flips.
“It’s escalation,” Vinny says quietly. “Media validation feeds delusion. We treat it as such.”
Miles exhales slowly. “So we revisit the restraining order?”
Vinny nods. “Yes.”
Rafe’s hand never leaves mine. His thumb presses against my knuckles, reassuring and deliberate.
“We’re fine,” he says quietly, but there’s steel under it now. “You hear me? We’re fine.”
I nod, even though I don’t entirely know what fine means anymore.
My chest feels tight, but it’s not panic. Not yet. It’s awareness. It’s standing at the edge of something and recognizing the ground is less stable than I thought.
I look down at my hands.
They’re steady.
Good.
Miles leans back, watching both of us like he’s evaluating a structural beam under pressure. “This is noise,” he says calmly. “Dangerous noise, but still noise. We adjust. We don’t retreat.”
Adjust. Don’t retreat.
I inhale slowly, letting that settle as we head back to my loft. The win still hums faintly in my bones, but it feels distant now. Less clean.
Rafe squeezes my hand once more before the car slows. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.
I look at him fully. “I am.”
And this time there’s no correction needed.