Chapter 24
RAFE
We land just before noon, the team flight uneventful in the way I’ve learned to appreciate.
No turbulence. No press storm waiting at the gate.
Just controlled exits and familiar choreography.
I watch Ollie more than I mean to as we move through the private corridor.
His shoulder is taped, the white strip visible beneath the collar of his hoodie.
He rolls it once as he walks, testing range, testing discomfort.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
He nods, not reflexively but after an actual check-in with his own body. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
That pause before answering matters. Eight years ago, he would have dismissed pain without thinking. Now he measures it. That difference stays with me.
Outside, a small group waits behind the barricades. A couple of photographers. Some fans layered in team colors. One kid draped in a rainbow flag like it’s armor. The sight of it lands somewhere low in my chest. Ollie sees it, too, his expression softening.
His hand finds mine without hesitation.
Not a calculated move. Not a public statement. Just instinct.
The cameras click. Someone calls my name. Another calls his.
We don’t react. We don’t hide either.
We walk like two men who know exactly where they’re going.
Vinny stays just behind us, close enough to intervene but not close enough to intrude. He has that rare skill of being present without becoming the focal point. I don’t have to look at him to know he’s cataloging everything—the angles, the exits, the bodies that linger a second too long.
Inside the SUV, the doors close with a heavy thud that seals out the wind. Ollie sinks into the seat, breath leaving him in a slow release. He rotates his shoulder again, subtle, almost private.
“You sure?” I press.
He gives me a look that says I’m overdoing it, but it’s not annoyed. “I’m sure.”
The driver pulls away smoothly, Vinny in the passenger seat. Traffic is light. The city slides past in washed-out grays and muted brick.
“You want to eat out?” Ollie asks after a few minutes.
I picture a restaurant. The tables too close together. Phones lifted discreetly under the guise of checking messages. An anniversary meal becoming content for someone else’s timeline.
“No,” I say. “Let’s cook.”
He glances at me. “You cooking?”
“I think together we can work it out.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile.
“We’ll grocery shop,” I continue. “Then we go home.”
The word hangs there between us. Home. We’ve lived too long separately. I don’t want that ever again.
He nods once. “Okay.”
Vinny catches my eye in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t ask whether that’s wise. He never does that in front of Ollie. But I know he’s calculating exposure, assessing proximity.
“We’re stopping,” I tell him.
He inclines his head. “I’ll stay close.”
I wouldn’t expect anything less.
The grocery store parking lot is predictably imperfect. There are two photographers near the cart return pretending to be absorbed in their phones, and another by the entrance whose camera strap is too visible to be accidental. They notice us immediately—no doubt having followed the SUV.
Ollie notices too. His posture shifts almost imperceptibly with awareness.
“You good?” I ask him quietly.
“I’m fine,” he says.
It’s automatic.
I wait, and he exhales slowly. “I’m okay,” he corrects. “Just didn’t realize how quickly I’d get tired of being watched buying food.”
That honesty settles something in me. It’s not panic. It’s not spiraling. It’s fatigue. That I can handle.
“Yeah,” I say. “That part’s bullshit.”
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly.
We step out together. The cold bites through my coat immediately, wind sharp against my face. Vinny exits on the opposite side and adjusts his stance slightly, giving us space but keeping sightlines clear.
I don’t drop Ollie’s hand. If anything, I hold it firmer.
A camera clicks. A voice calls my name. I don’t turn. Rachael’s voice lives permanently in my head when it comes to press: Don’t feed it. Don’t escalate it.
The automatic doors slide open, releasing a wave of warm air and the scent of produce and bakery sugar. Inside, fluorescent lighting replaces gray sky. The ordinariness of it hits me harder than I expect.
People with carts. A kid whining about cereal. An elderly couple debating apples.
It feels almost sacred.
“Mission,” I murmur, grabbing a cart before Vinny can.
Ollie raises a brow. “Mission?”
“Anniversary dinner.”
He looks at me like I’ve proposed something absurd. “It’s pasta.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “It’s anniversary dinner. I’m not insulting you with pasta.”
His brows lift. “Oh? And what are you making instead?”
“We are making something my mamá taught me,” I reply, already steering the cart toward a different section. “Real food. Not your sad athlete carbs.”
That stops him. He studies me, something softer flickering behind the humor. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, warm enough to take the edge off the cold that’s followed us all morning. “Okay,” he says. “Now I’m intrigued.”
We start in produce. I pick up an avocado and squeeze it with confidence I absolutely do not possess.
“You don’t know how to pick one,” he says immediately.
“I absolutely do.”
“You’re interrogating it.”
“I’m assessing structural integrity.”
He huffs and takes it from me with long-suffering patience, replacing it with one he selects in two seconds flat. “You choose by vibes.”
“Vibes matter.”
“Not to fruit.”
“They do in Mexican cooking,” I counter. “Mamá would say the fruit tells you when it’s ready.”
He pauses, eyes softening. “She actually said that?”
“In Spanish. With more drama.”
He smiles properly then, something genuine and a little reverent. “Next time we see your mom, we need to ask her to teach us how to cook a couple more meals.”
My heart flips unexpectedly. “She’d love that.”
We move through the aisles with more purpose now—cilantro, limes, tomatoes, jalapenos. I grab a bag of dried chilis and hold them up.
“Chicken tinga,” I say. “Or maybe enchiladas if you behave.”
“I always behave,” he says.
I snort. “That is objectively false.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “You bruise me.”
The flush that creeps up his neck is immediate and deeply satisfying.
There’s that blush again. It started this whole thing once, years ago in a locker room corridor. It still gets to me now.
“Behave,” he mutters.
“Never.”
We add tortillas, crema, and cheese to the cart.
The familiarity of the ingredients steadies me in ways I didn’t expect.
It feels like bringing a piece of my childhood into the life we’re building now.
Mamá teaching me in a warm kitchen, music playing, her correcting my knife skills while telling stories about her own mamá.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed that until this moment.
A few people stare as we move through the store. One teenage kid nearly collides with a display of paper towels because he’s watching us instead of walking. His mother hisses his name in embarrassment. I give her a polite smile so she doesn’t think we’re offended.
Ollie nudges my hip lightly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying you pretending this is stressful.”
“It is stressful.”
“You’re six-foot-four and built like a tank.”
“Doesn’t make me invisible.”
That lands more seriously than either of us intended. He’s right.
I reach for his hand without thinking, threading our fingers together in the middle of the aisle. He looks down at it, then back at me, something steady and grateful in his expression.
“No,” I say quietly. “But you’re not alone anymore.”
The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little, and we keep moving—toward the checkout, toward dinner, toward something that feels more and more like a real life.
At the register, the cashier avoids direct eye contact but trembles slightly when scanning the basil. I thank her like she’s not standing three feet from a story she’s probably read about a hundred times.
Outside again, the cold slaps back into place. The photographers get their shots—Ollie carrying too many bags because he refuses to let me do it like I’m some fucking damsel. Vinny opens the trunk, movements efficient and unobtrusive.
As we slide back into the SUV, the world narrows again to contained space and warmed air.
Ollie leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes briefly.
“Worth it?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I answer.
“For chicken tinga?”
“For normal.”
He turns his head toward me, studying my face like he’s trying to measure whether I mean that.
I lace our fingers together again. “Home,” I say.
He nods once. “Home.”
The word doesn’t feel temporary anymore, despite the location being exactly that. It doesn’t feel like something we have to protect from daylight.
The city rolls past outside the window, gray and melting and stubborn, buildings streaked with old snow and salt like they’re mid-transition and not quite convinced spring is coming. Vinny watches traffic with steady focus from the front seat, posture relaxed but alert.
In the back, Ollie’s thumb traces a slow line across my knuckles without thinking about it. It isn’t for show. It isn’t calculated. It’s muscle memory—affection without performance, intimacy without fear.
We bought groceries. We held hands in public. For most people, that’s nothing. Errands. Tuesday behavior.
For me, it’s something I’ve been starving for.
Twelve years ago, I married him in a chapel that smelled faintly of cheap flowers and carpet cleaner. I told myself that was enough. That love could live in private. That stolen nights and hotel rooms and careful scheduling were a compromise worth making.
But what I’ve craved—what I never stopped craving—was this.
Daylight.
Ordinary.
Unremarkable.