Epilogue
OLLIE
The thing about moving in with someone you love—someone you’ve loved for most of your adult life—is that it’s both wildly emotional and deeply, absurdly practical.
Mostly, it’s cardboard.
Boxes. Tape. Sharpies. More boxes.
And right now, I’m surrounded by all of it.
I close the front door behind me and lean back against it for a second, letting the quiet settle around me.
The late-afternoon light spills through the long glass windows at the back of the house, turning everything soft and gold.
San Francisco in early summer feels like a different planet compared to Minnesota in March.
The air is warmer, cleaner. The tension I carried in my shoulders for years has slowly loosened over the last couple of months, and sometimes the absence of it still surprises me.
I’m home.
The word doesn’t scare me anymore.
I drop my keys on the console table, toe off my shoes, and flex my shoulder experimentally. The physio session with Caden this morning was brutal in that way that means it’s working. He’s relentless. Also annoyingly cheerful.
“Retirement isn’t a vacation,” he’d told me while trying to break my arm with a stretch. “It’s a job.”
“I know,” I’d said.
He’d smirked. “You don’t. Yet.”
He’s probably right.
The house smells like garlic and something citrusy.
Rafe’s cooking. The sound of a guitar drifts faintly from the living room, soft and unfinished, like he’s working through something without urgency.
That still gets to me. For years, hearing him play meant distance—videos, recordings, echoes. Now it means he’s here.
I walk into the open-plan space and pause.
He’s on the couch, one leg tucked under him, guitar resting against his thigh. His hair’s a mess, his T-shirt is old and soft, and his bare feet are hooked under the edge of the coffee table like he’s anchoring himself to the room.
He looks up immediately. “Hey.”
That one word still hits me in the chest.
“Hey.”
He sets the guitar aside and studies my face. “How was Caden?”
“Sadistic.”
“He’s like you,” Rafe says. “You have that in common.”
“I’m not sadistic.”
He raises a brow. “You once played through a dislocated finger.”
“That was the playoffs.”
“That was preseason.”
I shrug. “Details.”
He grins, then drops his gaze to my shoulder. “Pain?”
“It’s manageable.”
He doesn’t relax fully until I say that. He never will. Not after the last season. Not after the way I strapped it daily, iced it nightly, and refused to admit how close I was to not making it to the end.
Retirement still feels surreal some days.
The Eagles didn’t make it all the way through the playoffs. That stung for about forty-eight hours. Then it didn’t. Because the ending still felt right—earned and whole.
I cross the room and sit beside him, our knees bumping. “You’ve been unpacking,” I say.
“Trying,” he replies.
He gestures toward the battlefield around us. A half-open box sits on the floor, surrounded by packing paper and what looks like the contents of my entire kitchen.
I wince. “You found that one.”
“I did.”
His tone is suspiciously amused.
“I told you there were a few sentimental items,” I say carefully.
“Ollie.”
“What?”
He reaches into the box and pulls out the ugliest ceramic bowl in existence. It’s bright orange. Lopsided. Slightly cracked on one side.
“It’s a pumpkin,” I say defensively.
“It looks like a traffic cone.”
“It’s handmade.”
“It’s aggressively handmade.”
“My grandma gave me that,” I say, grabbing it back. “I used to keep my keys in it.”
He softens instantly. “Then it stays.”
“Even though it’s hideous?”
“Especially because it’s hideous.”
I laugh, the sound easy and unguarded.
This is what the last month has been. Settling.
Breathing. Learning each other again without crisis driving every conversation.
We kept the new loft in the city, because Rafe insisted I needed a space that was mine, somewhere close to the foundation office and the new work that’s already starting to take shape.
My furniture arrives next week. For now, it’s just clothes, personal things, memories.
And apparently, ugly bowls.
He leans back, watching me. “You’re different.”
“Good different or concerning different?”
“Peaceful.”
I consider that. “Yeah.”
It’s true. For the first time in years, my nervous system isn’t in constant alert mode. No media storms. No secrets. No pretending.
No fear that the person I love most in the world will disappear because I wasn’t brave enough.
I reach for his hand automatically, and he threads our fingers together.
We sit this way for a moment, quiet.
“My mom tried again,” I say finally.
His body stills. “When?”
“Yesterday. Through Lindy.”
His eyes narrow. “What did she want?”
“Not me.”
That earns a small, humorless huff from him.
“She asked if Lindy could give her my number,” I continue. “Lindy said no.”
“Good.”
“She didn’t push. She won’t,” I say. “She knows better. It’s about my dad’s company.”
He rolls his eyes.
“There’s a new governor. Very progressive. Publicly supportive of migrants and LGBTQ rights. Mom seems to think reconnecting might improve their… optics.” The word tastes bitter.
Rafe’s expression goes cold in a way that still surprises people who don’t know him well. “Did you tell Lindy no?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I turn toward him. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s redemption arc.”
His eyes meet mine, steady and fierce. “You don’t have to be.”
“I know.”
We sit with that for a moment. The absence of guilt is new. The clarity even newer.
“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For choosing yourself.”
I swallow. “I should’ve done it earlier.”
“You did it when you were ready.”
I nod, and a beat passes. “In a month,” I say, “I start the San Diego schedule.”
His eyes light up. “Once a month… I can handle it. It’s going to change a lot of lives.”
“I hope so.”
He squeezes my hand. “It already has.”
The foundation has grown faster than I expected. Maria’s a force of nature. We’ve got programs planned for another two cities.
For years, basketball was my purpose. Now it’s part of my past.
This feels like the future.
Rafe shifts closer, his knee pressing against mine. “You look happy.”
“I am.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I plan on keeping you that way.”
“Oh?”
He leans in, voice dropping. “I’ve waited twelve years for this version of you. I’m not letting you escape.”
I grin. “Escape where?”
He kisses me, apparently not thinking that needs an answer. It’s slow at first. Familiar and grounding. The kind of kiss that reminds me we chose this, over and over again.
When he pulls back, his gaze lingers.
“I’m hungry,” I say.
He laughs softly. “We ate not that long ago.”
“I meant… hungry.”
Understanding sparks in his eyes. He stands and offers me his hand. “Come here.”
I take it without hesitation.
The house is only half unpacked. The city hums beyond the windows. The future is wide and open and ours.
For years, I believed happiness was something fragile and temporary. Something that could vanish if I looked at it too closely.
Now I know better.
Happiness is work. It’s choice and presence.
It’s this.
His hand in mine. The weight of his gaze. The way the world feels steady instead of sharp.
As he pulls me toward the bedroom, I realize something simple and profound.
I don’t feel like I’m stepping into a new life.
I feel like I finally came home.