Chapter 26
RAFE
The arena empties slowly, like it doesn’t want to let him go.
Even after the final buzzer, even after the interviews and the ceremony that wasn’t technically a ceremony but absolutely was, people linger in their seats as if staying a little longer might press pause on time.
I stand near the edge of the tunnel with the rest of our makeshift family—my band, his sister and her family, my parents and sister, Maria with half the San Diego foundation kids orbiting her like satellites—and watch Ollie shake hands with staff, trainers, security guards, ball boys.
He thanks everyone.
That’s who he is.
He doesn’t look overwhelmed. He doesn’t look wrecked. He looks steady.
His shoulder is wrapped under his jersey, the tape visible when he lifts his arm to hug someone. I know it aches. I’ve seen him ice it every night for the past two weeks. I’ve seen the way he rotates it carefully when he thinks no one’s watching.
But tonight, he doesn’t move like a man in pain. He moves like a man finishing something on purpose.
When he finally looks up and spots me near the tunnel, the noise fades in my head even though the arena is still humming.
He smiles.
It’s not the public smile. Not the captain smile. Not the media one.
It’s mine.
And fuck, that still undoes me.
He jogs over, slower now that the game is done, and pulls me into him without hesitation. No checking who’s watching. No calculating angles.
“Hey,” he says, breath warm against my temple.
“Hey yourself.”
“You see that last assist?”
“I saw you show off.”
“That was not showing off.”
“That was absolutely showing off.”
He laughs, and I feel it against my chest.
Around us, people clap Ollie on the back. Cassius shouts something about postseason dominance. Maria corrals two foundation kids who are vibrating with awe. My mamá wipes at her eyes discreetly, which she thinks no one notices.
I pull back enough to look at him properly.
“You good?” I ask.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
There’s no tremor under it. No hidden panic. No sense of a cliff edge.
Just calm.
The ceremony after the game was brief but intentional. A highlight reel. A framed jersey. A speech from Coach that walked the perfect line between teasing and reverence. The crowd stayed on its feet for longer than anyone expected.
Hardcore fans don’t miss their moment.
They built banners overnight. They printed shirts in less than twenty-four hours. They chanted his name in a rhythm that felt less like farewell and more like a promise.
Marshall forever.
He didn’t cry.
He smiled. He thanked them. He talked about gratitude and timing and knowing when your body has given you everything it can.
He didn’t frame it as loss but as evolution.
That’s new.
We drift toward the family section eventually, and he hugs my parents properly this time. My mamá pulls him down by the face and speaks rapid Spanish at him that makes him grin and nod like he understands every word.
“You’re one of ours,” she tells him in English at the end, firm and absolute.
He swallows hard at that.
His sister wraps him in a hug next, fierce and unapologetic. His niece tackles him at the knees like he’s still invincible.
The foundation kids hang back for a second, shy now that they’re this close. Ollie crouches down immediately, shoulder protesting but ignored, and thanks them for coming. One of them hands him the crooked sign from earlier.
“I’m putting this in my office,” he says solemnly.
The kid beams like he just signed a contract.
Eventually, the arena staff starts herding us gently toward the exits.
Outside, the air is cool but not cruel. April finally decided to commit to thawing.
We pile into cars. Vinny drives the lead vehicle, steady as always, though his posture tonight is looser.
The Tammy situation has quieted in the last two weeks.
Crossing state lines turned it federal. The restraining order was expanded, a psychiatric evaluation mandated, strict distance enforced.
Bail wasn’t revoked after Rafe and I submitted statements asking for leniency—treatment instead of jail, as long as she stayed far away from us until trial.
Handled.
Not erased. Not demonized.
Simply handled.
That’s what growth looks like.
Back at the loft, the mood is loud and messy for an hour. Pizza boxes open. Music playing low. Eli and Drew telling exaggerated stories about the first time they saw Ollie try to impress them by spinning a basketball on his finger. Rosa arguing about who cried more during the ceremony.
Eventually, people filter out.
My parents leave with warm hugs, having already insisted they stay in a hotel. Thankfully, they at least allowed me to organize it for them. Maria wrangles the last of the kids toward their hotel. The band promises brunch tomorrow before flying out.
The door clicks shut behind the last guest, and silence settles. Ollie leans back against the door for a second and exhales slowly.
“You sure you’re okay?” I check again.
He nods, but this time there’s something softer under it. “Yeah,” he says. “I thought it would feel… worse.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Like I was losing something.”
“And?”
He looks at me. “I’m not losing it,” he says quietly. “I’m just… changing the shape of it.”
That’s exactly it.
He pushes off the door and walks toward the kitchen, grabbing two sodas from the fridge without asking if I want one. He hands it to me, then pauses.
“Actually,” he says, setting both down. “Wait.”
He disappears down the hallway without explanation, and for a second, I assume he’s grabbing ice or water or one of the thousand small rituals that follow a game. When he comes back, though, he’s holding something I haven’t seen before.
A small velvet box.
My pulse stutters before I can stop it. “You’re not serious,” I say, because there’s only one thing that fits in a box like that.
“I am,” he replies, and there’s no teasing in it.
He crosses the room slowly and stops in front of me. Up close, I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the ache in the set of his shoulder, and something steadier underneath it all.
“We never really did this properly,” he says. “Not in front of our family. Not in daylight. Not without fear chewing at the edges.”
I swallow. “Vegas was perfect,” I manage. It was chaotic and impulsive and exactly us.
“It was,” he agrees. “But it was also… survival.”
That lands.
He flips the box open.
Inside aren’t new rings in the traditional sense. Not gold bands. Not diamonds. Not anything that looks like it came from a jeweler’s display case.
They’re ours.
But changed.
For twelve years, we’ve worn twisted black guitar strings as rings. Miles looped and knotted them for us in that Vegas chapel. They were uneven and slightly ridiculous and absolutely perfect.
We never stopped wearing them. Not really.
When everything broke eight years ago, Ollie slipped his back onto his worn leather necklace and wore it around his neck, tucked beneath his jersey like something sacred and hidden.
I kept mine on my right hand, stubborn and quiet about it.
Only recently—when we chose each other out loud—did we move them where they were always meant to sit, on our left hands. No more hiding. No more technicalities.
Mine started fraying a couple of weeks ago. A tiny sharp edge catching on fabric, snagging against guitar strings when I played. He noticed it before I did.
“You’re going to cut yourself,” he’d said, frowning at my hand while we were lying in bed.
“I’ll survive.”
“I’m getting it sorted.”
I forgot about it.
Of course I did.
Now I understand.
The rings in the box are still guitar strings—but they’ve been sealed in a thin band of brushed platinum, the metal hugging the twists without hiding them.
The texture is preserved beneath a clear protective layer, every ridge and curve visible.
The original strings encased, strengthened, made permanent without erasing what they were.
He lifts one carefully.
“I took them to a jeweler,” he says. “Had them reinforce both. They’re the same strings, just… protected.”
My breath catches.
“They were starting to wear down,” he continues. “And I don’t want something that fragile holding something this important.”
The metaphor isn’t subtle. It doesn’t need to be.
I let out a shaky breath. “You sentimental bastard.”
“Shut up.”
He steps closer, takes my left hand in his, and slides the new one into place.
It fits perfectly.
The weight is different. Heavier. Solid. The ridges of the string are still there beneath the smooth casing. I can feel them when I turn my hand, like history preserved under glass.
“I don’t want another ceremony,” he says quietly. “I don’t want a spectacle.”
“Good,” I murmur, because neither do I.
“I just want to choose you again,” he continues. “Without panic. Without running. Without pretending this has to survive in secret.”
The loft is quiet around us. The city hums faintly outside the windows. No cameras. No noise. Just the two of us standing in the soft aftermath of the biggest night of his career.
Ollie holds my gaze. “I love you,” he says, steady and sure.
I take his hand, pick up the reinforced band, and ease it onto his finger. The platinum catches the light, subtle but unmistakable. The guitar string beneath it is still visible—still ours—but now it looks like it was always meant to endure.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says.
And that’s the difference.
Twelve years ago, we clung to each other like we were outrunning something.
Eight years ago, we let fear make decisions for us.
Now we stand here, in a quiet loft after the last regular-season home game of his career, and there’s no urgency in the air. No sense that time is about to rip something away.
Just certainty.
He leans forward until our foreheads touch, his breath warm against my mouth.
“These will last,” he says softly.
“So will we.”
Later, we settle onto the couch with the muted game replay flickering across the television. His legs stretch across my lap, and I trace the new band with my thumb, feeling the ridges of the string beneath the metal.
It’s still the same ring. Just stronger.
Outside, the city keeps moving. The season will roll into playoffs. The world will keep asking questions. Life will keep unfolding in ways we can’t predict.
But the frantic edge is gone.
We’re not improvising anymore. We’re building.
I look down at our hands—at the strings that once felt temporary, now encased in something meant to endure—and I realize this is what I’ve wanted all along.
Not spectacle. Not drama. Not survival.
Longevity.
I don’t feel like something is ending. I feel like something has finally settled into its proper shape.
For the first time in a very long time, I’m not bracing for impact.
I’m just here. With him.
Exactly where I’m supposed to be.