Chapter 25 #2
“This is still our house,” Coach says. “I don’t care what the standings look like.” His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than usual. “And we finish strong.”
There’s a ripple of agreement.
Cassius bumps my shoulder lightly. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You look like you’re trying not to smile.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I huff quietly and start wrapping my shoulder.
The strapping has become second nature over the last couple of weeks. It’s just maintenance. A quiet acknowledgment that the body I’ve relied on for years has limits now.
It’s held up, has done what I’ve asked of it, but it’s tired.
The trainer finishes the tape with a firm press and nods. “You feel tight?”
“A little,” I admit.
He works the joint carefully, coaxing movement through it. “You’ve been smart.”
Smart.
There’s another word I didn’t expect to associate with my playing career.
Eight years ago, I would’ve pushed through anything. Pain was proof. Sacrifice was currency.
Now I know better.
Now I know longevity doesn’t require martyrdom.
The arena starts to fill long before tip-off. You can feel it through the walls. The low swell of crowd noise bleeding down the hallway. The stomp of feet in the stands.
When we head toward the tunnel, the volume shifts. It swells and then breaks into something sharper and so much louder.
I glance up at the overhead monitors as we wait for introductions. There are signs everywhere.
THANK YOU, CAP.
12 YEARS.
ONE OF US.
MARSHALL FOREVER.
I swallow hard.
“They didn’t waste time,” Cassius mutters beside me.
“They never do,” I reply.
Hardcore fans don’t wait for permission to make something meaningful. Yesterday, I announced it. Today, they’ve turned it into a moment.
We line up in the tunnel. The lights dim slightly. The announcer’s voice booms overhead, stretching each name like it matters, and I let myself look up into the stands for a second.
Section 112.
That’s where they are.
Rafe is easy to spot, even in a crowd. He’s wearing an Eagles hoodie like he’s been doing it his whole life. Miles is beside him, already halfway out of his seat. Drew and Eli are here too—loud, unmistakable, grinning like idiots.
Lindy is a few rows down with Phil and Amelia, all of them in jerseys. My niece is holding a sign that’s clearly too big for her hands.
And just behind them is Rafe’s parents.
His mamá is standing already, hands clasped at her chest like she’s at church instead of an arena. His dad’s arm is slung over the back of her seat, pride written all over his face.
Rafe’s sister, Rosa, is here, too, Luis leaning in close, both of them waving when they catch my eye on the screen.
It hits harder than I expect.
This isn’t just the end of a season. It’s the end of an era.
And they’re all here.
Not hiding or waiting.
Here.
Section 112 isn’t just family and chaos and familiar faces, though.
A few rows over, clustered together in matching navy hoodies with the foundation logo across the front, is a small group of kids from San Diego. Maria stands in the aisle like a general, hands on hips, trying to keep them from leaning too far over the railing.
I organized it quietly a couple of weeks ago, once the GM and I locked in the retirement announcement date. Flights, hotel rooms, chaperones—it took more coordination than some road trips.
I didn’t want it publicized. I just wanted them here. Kids who’ve spent afternoons in our gym instead of somewhere worse. Kids who think basketball is a ladder instead of a lottery ticket.
One of them is holding a sign that says THANK YOU, COACH O in crooked marker, the letters uneven and proud. When I catch Maria’s eye, she presses a hand to her heart and nods once. It nearly undoes me more than the roar of twenty thousand people ever could.
The announcer reaches the final names.
“…and at captain, number twelve—Ollie Marshall!”
The sound is physical.
It rolls down from the rafters like a wave and crashes into the tunnel. For a second, I can’t hear anything else.
The lights sweep across the court. The spotlight lands at the edge of the entrance.
Cassius leans in. “Ready?”
I nod once. “Always,” I say.
My shoulder is stiff but steady. The tape holds firm when I roll it once.
I step forward, and the noise spikes.
It isn’t polite applause. It isn’t nostalgia. It’s deafening.
Phones are up everywhere. Signs lifted higher. The big screen flashes highlights—rookie year, All-Star appearances, playoff runs, the first night I played after I came out and the crowd stood instead of flinched.
I don’t let myself linger on that too long.
I jog out onto the court, and the hardwood feels exactly the same beneath my shoes as it did eleven years ago. But I’m not the same.
I don’t run because I’m chasing validation anymore. I run because I chose this, because I stayed, and because this is my house, and this is my last regular-season game in it.
I glance up once more toward Section 112.
Rafe is on his feet now, shouting something I can’t hear over the roar.
For a second, everything narrows.
The court. The crowd. The noise.
And him.
Then the whistle blows, and the game begins.