Chapter 4
Media day feels nothing like basketball.
There’s no rhythm to it or momentum. Just sharp starts and stops, flashes of light, voices calling my name before I’ve fully oriented myself in the room.
I’ve done press before—college interviews, postgame scrums, local radio where the hosts still sounded a little impressed—but this is different.
This is curated.
I’m standing on a taped X on the floor, Monarchs logo positioned carefully behind my left shoulder, while a woman with a headset and immaculate eyeliner checks her tablet and nods.
Someone adjusts the lighting, angling it just enough that it doesn’t wash out my face.
Another person steps in to smooth the front of my jacket like I’m a display, not a person.
“Ollie,” a voice says brightly. “Just a few quick questions.”
Quick, I learn, doesn’t mean easy.
“How does it feel to finally be here?”
I answer honestly. It feels good. It feels earned. It feels like something I’ve been working toward for so long that now it’s here, my body hasn’t quite caught up yet.
“What’s it like adjusting to LA?”
I almost smile at that. I’ve lived in Los Angeles for three years already, but I know what they mean. Not the city. The League. The scale of it. I talk about facilities, about learning from vets, about staying focused. The words come easily.
“And who’s been your biggest support through all of this?”
Something tightens in my chest. I don’t pause long enough for anyone to notice. I smile, easy, practiced. “My family’s been great,” I say. “And I’ve got some close friends from college who’ve really kept me grounded.”
It isn’t a lie. It’s just not the truth.
No one asks follow-up questions. No one asks for names. The interviewer nods, satisfied, already turning to the next player waiting off camera.
I step away from the taped X and exhale slowly. The publicist gives me a thumbs-up and tells me I did great. I thank her, because that seems like the right thing to do, and move along with the rest of the rookies through the maze of obligations.
As the day goes on, I notice how often assumptions do the work for me.
Single. Unattached. Available.
No one says it outright. They don’t have to.
The questions are shaped to leave space for answers that don’t exist. Someone jokes about “rookie freedom,” and I laugh along even as something sharp twists behind my ribs.
Another interviewer asks what I like to do on nights off, and I talk about movies and food and staying in shape.
I don’t say with my husband. I don’t say with Rafe. I don’t say anything that would make the room tilt.
The unsettling part is how good I am at it.
By the time we’re done—photos taken, interviews wrapped, social clips recorded—I feel hollowed out in a way that has nothing to do with fatigue. I step out into the corridor, the Monarchs logo still warm against my chest, and pause, taking a deep breath.
“Hey, Marshall.”
I turn. It’s Dan, one of the vets. He’s in his early thirties, has solid minutes, and has the kind of presence that doesn’t need to announce itself. He’s already changed out of his media-day jacket, hair still damp from a quick shower.
“Hey, Dan.”
We shake hands. His grip is firm, confident, easy. This is the kind of interaction the team wants—connections forming naturally, culture building without being forced.
“Survived your first media circus?” he asks.
I huff a quiet laugh. “Barely.”
He grins. “You get used to it. Or you get good at pretending you’re used to it. Same difference.”
We start walking toward the exit together, the hallway buzzing with players and staff peeling off in different directions. For a moment, it almost feels normal. Like teammates instead of assets.
“My wife wanted me to ask you something,” Dan says casually. “We’re having a few guys over this weekend. Nothing fancy. Just food, drinks, low-key. You’re welcome to come.”
The offer lands gently—and heavily.
“That’s really nice,” I say immediately, because it is. Because this is how you integrate. How you stop being the new guy. How you show you’re not aloof or difficult or too focused on yourself to care.
“She loves hosting,” he adds. “And she’s already asking who’s single, who needs feeding, all that.”
Single. The word doesn’t sting anymore. That’s the problem.
“I’ll check my schedule,” I say, which is the safe answer. The polite one. The one that keeps doors open without committing to anything.
Dan nods like he understands. “No pressure. Just thought I’d put it out there.”
“I appreciate it,” I say. And I do.
We reach the parking area and part ways, him heading one direction, me another. I get into my car and sit there for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel, engine still silent.
I should say yes. I know that. This is how you build goodwill. How you become part of something instead of orbiting it. Saying no too often turns into a reputation before you realize it’s happening, but every spare moment feels precious right now.
I’m going to be on the road soon. Weeks where my conversations with Rafe get slotted into gaps between games and travel days, where time zones become something we negotiate instead of ignore. Weeks where seeing each other requires planning instead of impulse.
The thought of giving up an evening—of sitting at someone else’s table, making small talk about things that don’t matter—feels unbearable in a way I don’t know how to explain.
I want my time with him, even if it’s quiet.
Even if it’s just sitting on the couch, legs tangled, watching something neither of us is really paying attention to. Even if it’s doing nothing at all.
Especially then.
I start the car and pull out of the garage, the city opening up around me in familiar streets and angles. I’ve lived here long enough that LA doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore. It feels… neutral. A place where my life exists in compartments that don’t touch unless I force them to.
As I drive, my phone buzzes on the passenger seat, the notification coming through my Bluetooth speaker.
Rafe: You alive?
I smile without meaning to when the speaker reads out his message, then return my own:
Me: Barely. Media day is a special kind of hell.
A beat follows before another notification, and I tell my phone to read me the new message.
Rafe: Proud of you. Okay if I steal you for dinner tonight?
My chest tightens, warm and aching all at once.
Me: Yes.
I don’t mention the invitation for the weekend. I don’t say that I probably should be more visible, more social, more available. I don’t tell him that saying yes to him feels like a no to something else I might need later. Right now, I just drive. Toward him.
We meet at a little place tucked between a nail salon and a liquor store, the kind of spot you only find if you already know it exists. There’s no valet or hostess stand. There are just mismatched tables, a chalkboard menu, and a bell over the door that jingles when we walk in.
Rafe’s already hunched over the counter when I arrive, studying the menu like it’s a personal challenge. He looks up when he hears the bell and breaks into a grin that hits me right in the chest.
“Hey,” he says, like he hasn’t been counting the minutes too.
“Hey,” I answer, suddenly lighter than I was five seconds ago.
We order without much discussion—something spicy for him, something safe for me—and claim a small table away from the window. The chair legs scrape softly against the floor. Outside, the street is quiet, unremarkable. No one is looking in. No one is looking at us.
That matters more than I want to admit.
We sit across from each other, knees brushing under the table.
It would be so easy to lace my fingers through his, to rest my hand on his wrist, to do any of the small things my body keeps reaching for out of habit.
I don’t. Instead, I tap my foot against his sneaker, once, just enough to feel him there.
He notices, of course. His mouth curves like he’s holding back a smile. “So,” he says, “tell me about your day.”
I snort. “You want the exciting version or the honest one?”
“Always honest,” he says. “I get enough hype everywhere else.”
I tell him about media day—the lights, the questions, the way everyone seems to want a sound-bite version of my life. I keep it surface-level. He doesn’t push. He never does.
“That sounds exhausting,” he says, reaching for his water. “Did you at least get free stuff?”
I grin. “A bag. A hat. Something I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to wear in public yet.”
He laughs, full and warm, and it feels like something in me settles into place.
I ask about rehearsal. He tells me about a fight over tempo that somehow turned into an argument about drumsticks. I listen like it matters, because it does—to him. Because this is what it means to love someone: to care deeply about things that don’t touch your world at all.
Our food arrives. We eat and talk about nothing important. A terrible movie he watched on a flight last week. A guy on the team who insists pineapple on pizza is a crime. The stray cat that keeps showing up outside his band’s apartment and refuses to befriend Rafe no matter how many times he tries.
“I think it knows,” he says seriously. “It can sense desperation.”
I laugh, nearly choking on my food. “You’re projecting.”
“Am not,” he says. “I’m charming.”
“You tried to name it.”
“That’s bonding.”
We linger longer than necessary, neither of us in a hurry to leave.
The restaurant stays comfortably full but never crowded.
No one gives us a second look. We’re just two guys having dinner, leaning in close to hear each other over the low hum of conversation.
It’s almost enough to forget the rest of it.
When we finally stand to go, Rafe reaches for his jacket and hesitates, like he’s about to do something on instinct. His hand twitches toward mine and then stops, fingers curling back into his palm. I feel it anyway.