Chapter 8 #2
He doesn’t stop there. “Isn’t your friend into both dudes and chicks, though?” Kirk goes on, voice louder now, more confident. “So why’s he throwing a guy in everyone’s face like that?”
My hands curl into fists before I can stop them.
“What?” he continues, scoffing. “Is he trying to prove something? Or is this just some publicity shit? Because I don’t get it. Pick a lane.”
The laughter is thinner this time. Less sure.
“Man,” Smith mutters, uneasy. “That’s not—”
Kirk waves him off. “What? I’m just saying. Feels performative. Like, cool, we get it. You’re ‘edgy.’”
The word edgy lands wrong. It sounds cheap and dismissive.
I swallow hard. I stare at the floor, at the scuff marks near my feet, at anything that isn’t the way his voice keeps pressing in on me.
I should say something. I know I should.
Every part of me is screaming that this is the line, that silence here isn’t neutrality—it’s permission.
But my mouth won’t open.
Marco’s towel hits the bench hard. “Dude,” he says flatly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The room stills.
Kirk looks surprised, like he genuinely didn’t expect anyone to push back. “Relax. I’m allowed to have an opinion.”
“Not when your opinion is just you being a homophobic asshole,” Marco replies.
Kirk scoffs, shaking his head. “Whatever. Didn’t realize this was a sensitivity seminar.”
I finally look up. Our eyes meet for half a second. There’s something in his expression then—curiosity, maybe. Testing. Like he’s trying to figure out why this bothers me so much.
I look away first, and the shame of that choice settles deep in my chest, heavier than any weight I lifted today.
Marco shakes his head. “You’re being a dick.”
The room goes quiet again. Not stunned silence. Just enough pause to let the line draw itself.
I say nothing. Again. The guilt is immediate and suffocating.
Afterward, Marco corners me near the exit. “You don’t owe him your silence,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I reply, and the words feel worn already.
“Then why—”
“I can’t,” I cut in, too fast. “I just can’t.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he nods, slow and understanding in a way that makes my breath snag. “Okay,” he says. “But don’t let it eat you alive.”
It already is.
Once I’m home, I finally watch the interview everyone’s been quoting. I don’t want to. I put it off until it’s too late to pretend I won’t. The apartment is quiet, Rafe still out of town, the couch holding the shape of where he should be.
Elliot sits beside him on the screen, angled in just enough to read as intimate without crossing any obvious lines. They’re both relaxed, confident, unafraid.
The host asks about the video.
“It was important to us,” Rafe says, voice steady, “that it felt honest.”
Elliot smiles at him. “It was easy to be honest with you.”
The audience reacts exactly the way they’re meant to, and my chest aches with it.
I mute the television and stare at the screen, watching their expressions without sound. They look good together. Not romantically—not really—but aesthetically. Cohesive. Aligned. Easy. Everything I refuse to be with him in public.
My phone buzzes before the thought has time to settle. It’s a text from Eric.
Eric: Hey, heads-up. Media requests picking up. Might want to be careful about affiliations right now. Nothing bad. Just optics.
I stare at the screen for a second, then lock it and drop the phone onto the couch like I don’t care. I do.
Five minutes later, it buzzes again. This time, it’s a call. I answer after switching the TV off completely, unable to look at it anymore. “Hey.”
“Ollie,” Eric says, brisk but not unkind. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Couple things,” he replies. “First—sponsorship interest is ramping up. Nothing locked yet, but a few brands want meetings. Apparel, wellness, that kind of thing.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Okay.”
“We don’t have to rush,” he adds. “But it’s worth thinking about. This is usually when momentum matters.”
“I know,” I say. “We can talk about it later.”
“Fair.” There’s a brief pause, and then he clears his throat. “Second thing. There’s a charity gala coming up next month. Big one. League-backed. A bunch of your teammates will be there.”
I hold back my sigh. “Okay.”
“They’d like you to attend.”
“Okay.”
“And,” Eric continues carefully, “it’s customary to bring a date.”
There it is.
I let out a slow breath. “No.”
“Ollie—”
“I’m not doing that,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I’m not interested in pretending I’m dating or starting rumors.”
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” he says. “I’m asking you to consider how it looks.”
“I have considered it,” I reply, more than aware of his thoughts about me being friends with a band who are everywhere right now. But more specifically, friends with Rafe, an openly bisexual man. “And the answer’s still no.”
Eric sighs, but it’s more thoughtful than frustrated. “I figured you’d say that.” Silence stretches for a beat. “There’s flexibility here,” he says eventually. “It doesn’t have to be romantic. It just… can’t be empty.”
I think about Rafe. About the way he fills a room without trying. About how visible he is in ways I’m not allowed to mirror. “If I have to bring someone,” I say slowly, “I’ll ask my sister.”
Eric pauses before saying, “That works.”
It shouldn’t surprise me how easily he accepts it. Family is safe. Family makes sense. Family doesn’t invite questions. It also helps sell a potential brand of me being a good son and big brother.
“Okay,” he adds. “We’ll list it that way. No pressure beyond that.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it.
“We’ll talk more soon,” he says. “You’re doing great, Ollie. Just… stay smart.”
The line goes dead.
A date that isn’t a date. A presence that doesn’t threaten.
Another small adjustment to keep the edges smooth.
This is temporary. This is just how things work.
But the truth presses in anyway: Every choice I make to stay unseen is another place where I leave him behind, even when he’s right beside me in every way that matters.