Chapter 4 #3
That’s when I meet Candice. She’s introduced casually, but I recognize her immediately.
She’s one of those people whose name floats through conversations without explanation, linked to the city, to the venue, to the broader orbit of the League and its money.
Famous adjacent. Well-connected. Effortlessly at ease.
“Ollie, right?” she says, smiling in a way that feels genuine rather than practiced.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Nice to meet you.”
She gestures lightly with her glass. “I hear preseason’s coming up fast.”
“Next week,” I say. “Feels like it crept up overnight.”
She laughs. “That tracks. Everything important does.”
We talk about nothing consequential. About the venue.
About how strange LA can feel even when you’ve lived here for years.
About traffic, which somehow always becomes a shared language.
She doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t probe. She just…
talks to me, like a normal person having a drink at the end of a long evening.
It’s a relief I didn’t realize I needed.
We’re standing closer than strangers usually do, but it’s the kind of closeness that comes from not having to perform. It’s comfortable and easy. At one point, she leans in to hear me better over a swell of conversation behind us, and I lean in, too, without thinking.
That’s when I feel it. The subtle shift in the room. A photographer moves through the space again, quiet and efficient, catching moments that look natural because they aren’t staged. I don’t turn toward the camera. I don’t straighten. I don’t change my expression.
I already know how to look relaxed.
The flash goes off once. Then again later, when I’m laughing at something Candice says, my head tipped slightly toward hers.
By the time I’m back in the car, the city settling into familiar streets and stoplights, my phone buzzes against the console.
A notification. I glance down at it at the next red light.
It’s a photo. Me and Candice, mid-conversation, bodies angled toward each other, close and unguarded.
We look comfortable and friendly. At ease in a way that reads effortlessly from the outside.
The caption is neutral.
Monarchs rookie Oliver Marshall attends team sponsor dinner ahead of preseason.
No speculation. No assumptions spelled out. Just implication hanging quietly in the space between pixels.
I swallow and lock my phone, setting it face down.
Thankfully, the drive back is quiet. The city slides past in familiar traffic patterns that don’t ask anything of me. By the time I pull into the garage and take the elevator, the noise of the evening has settled into something manageable.
In the suite, Rafe is waiting. He’s on the small couch with his guitar resting beside him, not playing it, just there like he’d set it down and forgotten why.
The lamp in the corner throws soft light across the room, catching the edges of the minimalist furniture.
I can’t wait to get an apartment of my own.
He looks up when the door closes behind me, his expression easing as soon as he sees me. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I answer, dropping my keys onto the bedside table. The sound feels too loud in the quiet.
I toe off my shoes and cross the room, sitting beside him. He leans into me without thinking, shoulder fitting under my chin like it’s muscle memory. I rest my hand at the nape of his neck, thumb brushing warm skin, and feel my body finally unclench.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“How was it?” he asks eventually.
I exhale. “Fine.”
He hums softly, not convinced but not pushing yet. “Fine like fine, or fine like you’re going to tell me the real version in a minute?”
I snort quietly. “Sponsor dinner. Polite. Everyone very invested in preseason optimism.”
“That sounds… thrilling.”
“It was exactly as thrilling as it sounds.”
He shifts so he can look at me, one knee still tucked under him. “Anyone memorable?”
I think about Marco, hovering just close enough to count as friendly. About Kirk’s laugh carrying too far across the room. About Dan’s wife offering me a seat at a table that felt warm and safe and entirely incompatible with the way my life actually looks.
“Mostly normal,” I say. “Which I think is the point.”
Rafe studies my face, eyes sharp even when he’s trying to be casual. “That didn’t answer the question.”
“They talked a lot about preseason,” I add instead. “About how it’s not like Summer League. Less chaos. More scrutiny.”
He nods. “Because now they’re looking for reasons to trust you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And reasons not to.”
He tenses slightly under my hand. “You okay?” he asks.
“I will be.” I pause. “I have four games. That’s it. Four chances before the real season starts. Summer League was about flashes. Preseason’s about not fucking up.”
Rafe’s mouth curves faintly. “You’re very good at not fucking up.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s not actually comforting.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, then sobers. “Anyone give you a hard time?”
“Kirk was there,” I say.
Rafe’s jaw tightens immediately. “He’s such a dickbag.”
I may have complained about him a time or ten.
“He didn’t say anything,” I add quickly. “Not tonight. Just… existed loudly.”
“That might be worse.”
“Yeah.”
We sit with that for a beat, the unspoken understanding passing between us. Kirk isn’t the problem yet. He’s just a warning.
“I got invited to dinner,” I say.
Rafe glances up. “Oh?”
“Dan’s wife. She wants to feed the rookies before the season eats us alive.”
“That sounds nice,” he says genuinely.
“It is,” I agree. “I should probably go.”
“But,” he adds quietly.
“But,” I echo.
I lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Everyone assumes things. About my life. About what it looks like. They’re not being invasive. They’re just… filling in the blanks.”
Rafe doesn’t interrupt.
“They see me as someone unattached,” I continue. “Available. Flexible.” My voice tightens despite my best effort. “And the fucked-up part is that it makes things easier. For them. For the team.”
“For you,” he says softly.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
He shifts again, pulling his leg up, fingers tracing the seam of the cushion. “I saw the photo.”
My ribs draw in. Immediately I know what he’s talking about. “Already?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It popped up while I was packing up. You looked hot.”
I roll my eyes as heat spreads across my cheeks.
“You did. Do,” he says, pulling softly on my tie. “That’s kind of the problem,” he replies, not unkindly.
I turn toward him fully now. “We were just talking.” The words sound ridiculous. I’m a gay married man, but it doesn’t stop the sliver of guilt squeezing my chest.
“I know,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But?” I prompt.
“But I saw a room full of people look at you and see a version of your life that doesn’t include me.” His voice is calm and steady. “And I don’t get to correct them.”
“I don’t either,” I say.
He nods. “I know.”
The silence that follows is heavier than before. While it’s not brittle, it is loaded.
“I’m trying to protect us,” I say finally.
“I believe you.”
“And I’m trying to get through preseason without giving anyone a reason to doubt me,” I add. “I need to be… unremarkable.”
Rafe’s lips press together. “You’ve never been that.”
I almost laugh. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says. Then, after a moment, he adds, “I just need you to hear something.”
I brace myself without meaning to.
“I can do this,” he continues. “The lying. The editing. I can be careful. I can be careful for you.”
I reach for his hand, my thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Rafe—”
“But I can’t do it forever,” he finishes, voice quiet but firm. “I don’t want to be your secret forever.”
The words land cleanly. No accusation. No raised voice. Just truth, placed gently between us like something fragile and unavoidable.
I stare at him, heart pounding slow and heavy. “I don’t know how to promise you that,” I admit.
“I’m not asking for a promise,” he says. “I’m asking you to understand what this costs me.”
“I do,” I say, even as the weight of it settles deeper.
He searches my face. “Do you?”
I think about all the things I haven’t said out loud yet. About the version of the future I keep pushing further away, telling myself it’s reasonable. Telling myself it’s realistic.
“When I’m retired,” I say quietly. The words feel rehearsed, even to my own ears. “When this part of my life isn’t so… fragile.”
Rafe exhales, slow and thoughtful. He doesn’t pull his hand away, but he doesn’t nod either. “Or,” he says after a moment, “when things get easier. When you’re established. When you’re not fighting for space every single day.”
I look at him—really look. How would I even do that?
“I’m not asking you to blow up your career. I just don’t want ‘someday’ to keep moving every time we get close to it.”
That lands harder than anything else he’s said.
I think about Marco’s friendliness. About Dan’s wife offering me a place at her table. About Kirk looming at the edges of the room, loud and careless. About four preseason games and a season that hasn’t even started yet.
“I think I’m starting to understand,” I say finally.
He squeezes my hand once, grounding. “That’s all I need right now.”
We sit together, neither of us pulling away, neither of us pretending the conversation fixed anything. Outside, the city hums like it always does—indifferent, restless, alive. Inside, something has shifted.
It’s not broken, but it’s no longer light enough to ignore.