Chapter 17 #3
Rafe sees me and stops dead. His gaze locks on my face, on my eye. His mouth parts slightly. “Oh my God,” he says, voice dropping. “Ollie.” He takes a step toward me, hand lifting instinctively like he’s going to touch my cheek.
I flinch. It happens before I can stop it. A sharp recoil, my shoulder jerking back, my body twisting away like contact is going to ignite something I can’t control.
Rafe freezes. His hand hangs in the air for a beat too long before he slowly drops it. Offense flashes across his face first. Hurt, then confusion, then something guarded. “Ollie,” he says again, quieter now. “What the hell?”
“I’m fine,” I blurt.
It’s a stupid reflex. The same one that got me in this mess. The same one that insists everything can be handled if I just keep moving.
Rafe’s jaw tightens. “You’re not fine.”
I swallow hard, staring at the concrete. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. His voice is controlled, but I can hear the edge. “Don’t give me ‘I’m fine’ when your face looks like that.”
Vinny shifts slightly behind him, eyes scanning the hallway, but he doesn’t interrupt. He’s there without being there. A reminder that we aren’t alone.
Rafe’s voice softens a fraction. “Did someone hit you?”
My throat closes, and I nod.
He inhales sharply. “Who?” His hand tightens around his phone so hard his knuckles go pale—then he exhales through his nose like he’s swallowing something harsher than anger.
I hesitate. The name tastes like poison. “Kirk,” I say finally.
Rafe goes still. His whole body changes—tension coiling through him like a spring. “Your teammate?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.
I rub my palm against my thigh, trying to ground myself. “He—he said some things.”
Rafe’s eyes narrow. “About what?”
I swallow. I can’t say it. Not here. Not with Vinny within earshot. Not with the walls of the arena still around us, cameras and staff and strangers everywhere.
Rafe watches the hesitation and seems to understand immediately that there’s more. His expression tightens. “Ollie….”
“I lost control,” I force out. “He pushed, and I—” My breath catches. “I hit him first.”
Rafe’s brows knit. “You hit him?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He stares at me like he’s trying to reconcile that with the man he knows. “Jesus.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have. It doesn’t matter what he said. I shouldn’t have done it.”
Rafe’s gaze flicks over my face again, anger and worry tangled together. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s just a cut,” I say. “I’ll have a black eye.”
His mouth tightens. “You should have told me.”
I laugh once, bitter and small. “When? While I was getting my ass handed to me by my coach?”
His eyes flash. “Ollie.”
“Sorry,” I mutter immediately, guilt sharpening. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”
A mess.
A wreck.
A walking consequence.
Rafe takes a slow breath and shifts closer, careful this time, as if he’s approaching a skittish animal. “Do you want me to come to your hotel tonight?” he asks quietly. “I can sneak in.”
My stomach drops. “No,” I say too fast.
His face tightens again. “Why not?”
“Because I’m already in trouble,” I say. “I’m being benched. Fined. Maybe suspended. Coach told me to lie low. No press. No noise. If you show up and anyone sees—”
“Fuck what anyone sees,” Rafe snaps, then catches himself and lowers his voice. Vinny’s gaze sharpens, and he clears his throat subtly.
Rafe glances at him and forces his tone down. “Ollie. You’re hurt. You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”
“I have to,” I insist, panic flaring. “I can’t risk more attention. Not right now.”
He stares at me for a beat, then nods slowly, clearly swallowing his own frustration. “Okay.”
My stomach flips hard and wrong because he didn’t fight it harder. Because that acceptance feels like distance.
“Tomorrow’s still on,” Rafe says, eyes searching mine. “Yeah? I’ll pick you up at seven?”
My stomach turns violently.
Tomorrow.
His parents.
His childhood home.
The truth.
I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff and someone is asking me if I want to jump.
“I can’t,” I say, voice cracking.
Rafe stiffens. “What?”
“I can’t meet them like this,” I say, gesturing vaguely at my face. “I look like a thug. I look—” I swallow hard. “I can’t walk into their house with a black eye and be like ‘Hi, I’m your son’s secret husband.’ It’s too much.”
His eyes flash with anger. “So you’re backing out.”
“I’m not backing out,” I argue, desperate. “I’m saying it should have been during the offseason. This was too much pressure. My head wasn’t in the game, and—”
“And what?” Rafe’s voice goes sharp, incredulous. “And now you’re blaming me for losing a fucking game?”
The words hit like a slap. “I’m not,” I say quickly. “That’s not what I’m—”
“Yes, it is,” he snaps, voice low but furious. “You just said your head wasn’t in the game because of tomorrow.”
My throat closes. I want to explain the panic. The pressure. The way my mind has been fraying for weeks. The way Kirk’s words hit that raw spot and I snapped like a rubber band stretched too far.
Instead, all that comes out is “It’s too much.”
Rafe’s face hardens.
Vinny clears his throat again, more pointed this time, and subtly shifts closer as if to remind us there are ears everywhere.
Rafe’s eyes flick to him, then back to me. He lowers his voice to a furious whisper. “Fine.”
I blink.
“Whatever you want,” he says, the words controlled but loaded. “That’s the way it always is.”
My chest hollows out. “Rafe—”
He shakes his head sharply. “No. I’m done doing this tonight.”
He steps back. The space between us yawns open.
“I love you,” I say desperately, because if I don’t say it, I feel like I’ll choke on it.
Rafe’s jaw flexes. His eyes flash with something raw, something wounded. “I love you too,” he says, voice tight. “But I can’t keep being the thing you postpone.”
He turns. Vinny follows smoothly. Rafe doesn’t look back.
And I’m left against the concrete pillar, breathing too hard, my hands shaking, my face throbbing.
Reality hits in a cold wave. Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. Two years. And I just lit a match under everything.
What the fuck have I done?