Chapter 18 #3
I don’t answer. Because if I do, the truth will come spilling out, and I’m not ready for that. Not with PR in less than an hour. Not with my life already collapsing.
I stare at the phone in my hand like the dead line might reconnect if I just will it hard enough.
My pulse is pounding, and I realize with sick clarity that I might have just lost control of more than a fight.
I might have lost control of the secret itself.
My hand is still raised, elbow bent, the position frozen mid-failure.
My chest feels hollow, and my throat burns.
Marco hasn’t moved. He’s staring at me wide-eyed, the kind of stunned expression people get when they’ve just watched a magic trick and can’t decide if they’re impressed or horrified.
He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t demand. He just waits, patient and steady, like he’s giving me the one thing I’ve been refusing to give myself. Time.
I swallow hard, lower the phone, and stare at the carpet. There are a hundred ways to keep lying. There are a hundred ways to shove this back into the box I’ve been suffocating in for two years.
But Miles’s voice is still ringing in my head. They all know what today is. The secret is cracking, and I am so tired of holding it.
My voice comes out quiet, raw. “Today is our two-year wedding anniversary.”
Marco blinks. Then blinks again. Then his mouth opens. “The fuck?” he says, like the words physically hurt him. “Two years? How? The fuck?”
A laugh escapes me, small and bitter and shaky. “Yeah.”
He runs a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe the sentence away. “Ollie. What the actual—”
“I know,” I whisper.
He stares at me, then points vaguely at my bruised eye, the hotel room, the scattered clothes like he’s trying to assemble the puzzle with pieces from the wrong box. “You’re married. To Rafe Ortiz.”
“Yes.”
“Two years.”
“Yes.”
“Secretly.”
“Yes.”
Marco makes a sound that might be a strangled laugh or a near-death experience. “How. The fuck.”
I take a breath. Then the story spills out. Not every detail. Not the first touch, not the vows, not the soft private moments that belong only to us. But enough. Enough that it becomes real in the air between us.
“You know we met in college,” I say, voice unsteady.
“Same campus. I knew who he was. Everyone did. Steel Saints were local then. Just… loud guys with big dreams and a shitty van.” I swallow, and my chest aches.
“It started as friendship,” I continue, because it has to.
It has to make sense. “Hanging out. Helping each other. He was living with the band. I was on campus. It was… easy.”
Marco watches me like he’s afraid I’ll stop.
“Then it wasn’t easy,” I say, voice roughening. “Then it was him. And it was me. And it was stupidly right and terrifying, and I didn’t have language for it.”
Marco’s face shifts, something soft breaking through the shock. “You fell,” he says, like he’s confirming something obvious.
I nod once. “Hard.”
“And you got married,” he says, incredulous again.
I take a second before I trust my voice. “Before the draft, during March Madness in Vegas. We were already… us. We just—” I shake my head, still unable to believe it sometimes. “We did it. Just us and the guys, his bandmates. Just… us. Makeshift rings and promises, like idiots.”
Marco stares. “Like romantics.”
I bark a short laugh. “Like idiots.”
“You’ve been living like this for two years?” he asks, voice lowering. “Hiding a whole marriage?”
“Yes,” I say. The word tastes like defeat.
He leans back against the wall, arms crossing, eyes narrowed like he’s doing mental math. “Okay,” he says slowly. “So last night—Kirk—”
I nod, jaw tightening. “He saw Rafe in the crowd.”
Marco’s expression hardens. “Yeah. And then all that shit he said. He was actually close to the truth.”
“Yes,” I admit quietly.
“You punched him,” Marco says flatly.
“Yes.”
He exhales hard. “Jesus.”
I look down at my hands. “I didn’t plan it. It just… happened.”
“Yeah,” Marco mutters. “That’s the problem with snapping. It doesn’t come with a schedule.”
Silence stretches again. Then he says, quieter, “You said today you’re supposed to meet his parents.”
I nod, breath catching. “I’ve never met them.”
Marco’s eyes widen again. “You’re married to him and you’ve never met his parents?”
I lift one shoulder in a helpless shrug. “We kept putting it off. Timing. Travel. Secrecy. My… fear.”
Marco studies me. “And today was the day.”
“It was,” I whisper. “Rafe flew in for the game. He was going to see me for five minutes, then drive there and tell them. Tell them he’s married. To me. Then I was going to join him today.”
Marco winces. “And you don’t even have the address?”
“No,” I admit, shame heating my cheeks. “And he won’t answer.”
Marco’s face tightens with something like sympathy and irritation braided together. “You’ve fucked up,” he says bluntly.
I close my eyes. “I know.”
Marco pushes off the wall and points toward the food tray like it’s a weapon. “Let’s have breakfast, and we’ll figure things out.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he cuts in. “You’re going to eat, because you’re about to go into a PR meeting and pretend you’re fine, and you can’t do that on fumes.”
I stare at him.
He stares back, unyielding, before quietly adding, “And I’m not telling anyone.”
The words hit me in the chest. Relief and gratitude crash through me so hard my eyes sting.
“Marco—”
“I mean it,” he says firmly. “I don’t know what kind of idiot would betray you over something like this, but it’s not me.”
I blink fast. “Thank you.”
He waves it off, but his eyes are serious. “Eat.”
So I do.
Or I try to.
We sit at the small table by the window, sunlight making the room feel too honest. I choke down a few bites of eggs and toast while Marco drinks coffee and watches me like he’s monitoring my pulse.
Between bites, I keep checking my phone. There’s still nothing from Rafe. Every second of silence feels like a punishment.
When it’s time for the PR meeting, Marco walks with me down the hall like a guard dog. My stomach twists at every person we pass, convinced they can see the secret stamped on my face.
At the elevator, my phone buzzes again. It’s a message from Coach.
Coach: Meeting tomorrow. 9 a.m. sharp. My office. Be there early.
The weight of the text settles deep. Consequences. They’re already lining up like dominos.
We reach the meeting room on the second floor. A small conference space with a long table, a pitcher of water, notepads lined up like props. Two people are already inside—team PR.
One is a woman in her thirties, hair perfectly styled, tablet in hand. The other is a man a little older, crisp suit, the kind of face that looks neutral even when he’s furious.
They both look up when I enter. Their eyes flick immediately to my face, to the bruise.
The woman’s expression doesn’t change, but her tone is brisk. “Oliver. Thanks for coming. Have a seat.”
I sit. Marco stays near the door like he’s waiting for someone to tell him to leave. The man glances at him.
“You know Marco, right?” I say quickly. “He’s… he’s with me.”
Marco lifts his chin. “I’m not leaving him alone right now.”
The woman hesitates, then nods. “Fine. We’re not here to shame anyone. We’re here to handle this.”
The man slides a phone to the center of the table. “Eric’s joining by voice.” He taps the screen.
Eric’s voice comes through a second later. “I’m here.”
I exhale slowly.
The woman—Samantha—pulls up a clip on her tablet. “We’ve reviewed what’s circulating,” she says, and I freeze. I didn’t think there was any footage. “It’s messy but not catastrophic yet. The video angle is poor. It shows movement and confrontation, but it doesn’t show contact or capture audio.”
The man—Tom—adds, “It doesn’t even show which teammate you were confronting, which is good. Because we don’t want the narrative to include whatever was said or who it was with.”
My chest aches with the memory of it.
Eric’s voice is calm. “Ollie’s going to take full responsibility.”
Samantha nods. “Yes. That’s the key. We don’t deflect. We don’t name Kirk. We don’t discuss provocation. We don’t bring up any history.”
Tom slides a printed sheet toward me. “Statement draft.”
I look down. It’s polished and sterile:
I take full responsibility for my actions last night. I let my emotions get the best of me, and I regret it. This is not who I want to be as a teammate or a professional. I’ve spoken with the organization, and I’m committed to moving forward with accountability.
My lungs feel too small.
Samantha watches my face. “You can deliver that.”
I nod, because I can deliver anything if the stakes are high enough.
Tom leans forward. “Kirk has agreed not to speak publicly about it.”
Eric’s voice cuts in. “And consequences?”
Samantha answers, “The team will handle internally. The League will likely issue a fine. A one-game benching is probable.”
My stomach drops.
Tom adds, “We aren’t announcing a suspension unless it becomes official. If the League fines you, we acknowledge it and move on. We don’t feed the story.”
I nod, jaw tight.
Samantha’s eyes sharpen. “Most importantly, Oliver, you do not answer questions about your personal life. If anyone tries to connect this to the crowd, to someone being present, to anything outside the court, you redirect. ‘I’m not discussing that.’ ‘I’m focused on my team.’ Understood?”
My throat closes. “Yes,” I manage.
Tom continues, “We keep it boring. We let it die. Fighting stories live when there’s drama. We starve it.”
Marco shifts near the door, phone in hand and every now and then sending messages. His presence is a strange comfort, like an anchor in a room full of polished lies.
Eric’s voice is firm. “Ollie, you can do this. Deliver the statement once. Then you shut up.”
I nod again.
Samantha slides a small pack across the table. “Ice. For your face. Please use it.”
Humiliation burns hot in my chest.
We run through the statement twice. They correct my tone. They adjust the pacing. They remind me not to get defensive.
I feel like a puppet. By the time the meeting ends, my jaw aches from holding myself together.
Samantha stands. “We’ll coordinate with team comms. You’ll get a media schedule update. For now, lie low.”
Tom adds, “No more surprises.”
I stand, too, legs heavy. Marco is at my side immediately, like he sensed the second I might crumble. We step into the hallway, and the door shuts behind us. For a second, I just stand there, staring blankly at the carpet pattern. My body feels hollowed out.
Marco grabs my arm. “Come with me,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t answer. He just tugs me forward.
“Marco—”
“Trust me,” he says sharply.
I let him pull me toward the elevator. My brain is too fried to resist. We ride down in silence. Marco’s grip stays firm on my arm like he’s afraid I’ll bolt. The doors open into the underground parking garage, where he drags me toward a black car with tinted windows parked in a reserved spot.
“What is this?” I ask, confused.
“A courtesy car,” Marco says, already reaching for the handle. “And we’re going.”
My stomach drops. “Going where?”
He looks at me like I’m slow. “To his parents’ place.”
The words hit like a shock wave. I stop so abruptly that Marco’s grip tightens to keep me from stumbling. “What?” I whisper. “How?”
He rolls his eyes. “I know people, okay? Just get your ass in the car.”
I have to steady myself. “But our flights—”
“Changed,” Marco says, like it’s nothing. “We’re hopping a red-eye back to LA. You’ll still make team obligations. You’ll just be exhausted, which, honestly, seems like your default setting right now.”
I stare at him, stunned. “But—” My voice cracks. “I can’t just show up.”
“Yes, you can,” he snaps.
“What if he hates me?” I blurt, the fear spilling out before I can stop it. “What if he—what if I ruined everything?”
Marco pauses, his expression shifting from irritation to something sharper, more serious. Then he asks, very quietly, “Do you love him?”
The question stops me cold. A lump forms low in my throat. “Yes.”
“Do you want to make this work?”
“Yes,” I say, voice rough. “More than anything.”
Marco nods once, satisfied. “Then get your ass into the car and stop overthinking.”
I hesitate, heart hammering, terror and hope battling in my chest.
He opens the door wider and tilts his head. “Also,” he adds, deadpan, “if you don’t do this, I’m going to start calling you Oliver Bartolomeu instead of Ollie, and I promise you that will feel worse than a PR meeting.”
A startled laugh punches out of me.
Marco grins wildly, triumphant. “There he is. Romance. Grand gestures. You’re welcome.”
“This is not a rom-com,” I mutter, climbing into the car.
He shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in with the confidence of someone who has already decided the plot. He starts the engine and glances at me. “Seat belt,” he says.
I fumble for it automatically. As he pulls out of the garage, he hums under his breath like he’s enjoying himself far too much.
“What are you doing?” I ask weakly.
Marco glances over with a grin. “Being the supportive best friend you apparently needed two years ago.”
I swallow hard, staring out at the ramp leading up to daylight. My heart is pounding. My eye throbs. My life feels like it’s balancing on a knife-edge. But Marco is driving.
Toward Rafe.
Toward the truth.