Chapter 19 #2
His father gestures at the food. “This is simple,” he says, in accented English, as if he’s apologizing. “Not fancy.”
“It looks perfect,” I manage.
His mother smiles at me, eyes kind. “Rafe says you are polite.”
Rafe groans. “Mamá.”
“What?” she says, amused. “He does. He talks about you a lot,” she says to me.
The words hit me like a physical thing, and I swallow hard.
Rafe freezes beside me, shoulders subtly tensing, like he wasn’t expecting that to be said out loud. His ears go faintly pink.
“Yeah?” Marco says brightly, as if this is the most delightful thing he’s ever heard. “That checks out.”
Rafe shoots him a look that could cut glass. Marco just grins wider.
His mother leans forward slightly, smiling at me as if we’ve known each other longer than ten minutes.
“We are glad,” she says softly, “that he has someone who knew him before everything became so… big.” Her hand lifts, gesturing vaguely, as if “big” is too small a word for what Rafe’s life has become.
His father nods. “Fame makes people strange,” he says bluntly.
Rafe coughs, half laugh, half protest. “Dad.”
“It is true,” his father says, unfazed. “People come close for reasons that are not love.”
His mother’s expression softens. “But you,” she says to me, like she already trusts me, “you are… real for him. A good friend.”
I swallow hard. I don’t deserve this. Not when I can’t even say the truth sitting five feet away from it.
“It must be hard,” she continues, looking between Rafe and me, “with both of you so busy. Always traveling. Always schedules. Always other people needing you.”
My stomach twists while Rafe’s gaze flicks to me then, quick and sharp, like the words landed too close.
“It is,” I say quietly, because it’s the only answer I can give.
Marco leans back in his chair, nodding dramatically. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s commiserating. “My wife and I barely see each other some weeks too. It’s like… marriage by calendar invite.”
Rafe’s dad laughs. A short, surprised sound.
Rafe’s mom laughs, too, covering her mouth. “Ay, Dios mío,” she says. “That is terrible.”
“It’s romantic,” Marco insists. “Nothing says love like a shared Google doc.”
Rafe finally looks at Marco, some of the tightness easing as he shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
Marco winks. “I try.”
The laughter loosens something in the room. The energy shifts from careful to comfortable, and that makes the guilt sharper instead of softer. Because they’re so easy to be with. They would welcome me, if I were braver.
The thought slips in like a blade between my ribs and stays there.
Rafe’s father turns his attention to me, his gaze assessing but kind. “So,” he says, “you play for the Monarchs.”
I nod. “Yes.”
His mother’s eyes brighten. “We watch,” she says proudly. “Rafe makes us watch.”
Rafe mutters, “That’s not true,” but it’s weak, unconvincing.
“It is true,” his mother says firmly. “He sits on the couch the few times he is home and pretends he does not care, but then he shouts at the television.”
Marco snorts. “Oh my God. He’s one of those.”
Rafe points at him. “I do not shout.”
“You do,” I say, surprising myself.
Rafe’s head snaps toward me, eyes wide for a second, like he didn’t expect me to contribute. Then his mouth twitches. “I do not.”
“You do,” I repeat, quieter, and something in my voice must soften it, because Rafe’s expression shifts. Warmth flickers there. Love. A little ache.
His mother claps her hands once, delighted. “See? He knows you.”
A dull ache spreads through my chest.
His father nods toward my bruised eye. “And this,” he says, calm but pointed, “is from basketball?”
My throat closes. I force a nod. “Yeah. It happens.”
Marco leans forward conspiratorially. “He’s basically a gladiator,” he says. “The League just has better branding.”
Rafe’s dad laughs again. “Gladiator,” he repeats, amused.
Rafe’s mother reaches across the table and touches my forearm briefly, gentle. “Be careful,” she says. “You only get one body.”
“I will,” I promise, even though my body isn’t the only thing I’m breaking.
They ask about games, travel, the season.
Rafe’s parents listen like everything I say matters.
Like I’m not just the guy sitting in their son’s chair of affection.
Rafe says very little. He eats. He watches.
He keeps a glass of water close and drinks more than he talks—small, frequent sips like he’s trying to keep himself anchored in his own body.
I try to read him, but I can’t. It’s like there’s a shutter behind his eyes that keeps flicking closed whenever the conversation gets too close to certain topics.
His mother pours more agua fresca and says, “And your parents, Ollie? They must be very proud.”
The question lands, and my stomach twists so hard I almost drop my fork. Proud. My parents cut me out of their lives with zero emotion and no regrets.
I force a smile. “They’re… happy,” I lie carefully.
Marco, oblivious, nods. “They’d have to be,” he says. “The kid’s a machine.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, grateful and miserable at the same time. Marco has no idea he’s just stepped over a landmine. He thinks he’s helping.
Which he is. Just not in the way he intends.
Rafe’s father nods approvingly. “Good. Family should be proud.”
I swallow another bite of food that tastes like nothing now.
His mother tilts her head. “How long are you here for?”
My pulse spikes. I glance at Rafe, needing something from his face. Anything. Guidance. Permission. When he doesn’t give me anything, I answer truthfully, because it’s the safest thing I can do. “Not long,” I say. “Marco and I have to head back tonight. Red-eye.”
His mother’s brows lift. “Tonight?”
I nod. “Team schedule.”
Her mouth pinches with sympathy. “That is fast.”
Marco nods dramatically again. “Yeah. He’s basically allergic to rest.”
Rafe’s father looks at Marco now, amused. “And you, Marco. You said you are married, yes?”
Marco brightens. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s proud. “Twenty months. Carol’s a saint.”
His mother’s face lights up instantly. “Ay, qué bonito,” she says. “Almost two years!”
His father nods. “Marriage is work,” he says, solemn and sincere.
Marco points at him like they’re in on a joke together. “See? You get it.”
Rafe’s mother leans forward, clearly charmed. “Maybe you will help Rafael,” she says teasingly, “find a nice woman.”
Rafe makes a strangled sound. “Mamá—”
Then his mother’s expression shifts, subtle and thoughtful, and she adds quietly, almost casually, “Or man.”
The air changes. It’s only for a second, but it’s enough.
Rafe goes very still beside me. His fingers tighten around his water glass. Not enough to crack it—just enough to remind himself he’s holding something. I drag in a breath, but it sticks halfway down. I want to cry.
Not because she said it, but because she said it like it wouldn’t change how she loves him.
Because she said it like it was obvious she’d still be proud.
Because she said it like love is simple.
Marco blinks, then recovers with the ease of someone who doesn’t know how loaded the moment is. “Hey,” he says lightly. “Whatever makes him happy, right?”
His father nods, calm. “Yes.”
His mother smiles at Rafe, then turns to me, eyes bright. “And you, Oliver?” she asks warmly. “Are you married?”
My heart drops straight through my body. I stare at her, my mouth turning dry. The word yes burns behind my teeth like a secret trying to escape.
I can’t. I force my voice steady. “No,” I say.
Rafe’s head snaps toward me so fast it hurts to see. His eyes widen, and for a split second, I see the flinch. The impact. The pain that doesn’t have anywhere to go.
His father bobs his head approvingly, oblivious. “Sensible,” he says. “Career first. You are young.”
Marco opens his mouth, and I feel panic spike because I don’t know what he’s about to say. I don’t know if he’ll accidentally trip over the truth.
“Well,” Marco says, playful, leaning back in his chair, “some people are married to their job, right? And some people are… married and still act single in public.”
The words land with a soft thud, and my blood runs cold.
A joke.
A throwaway.
But to anyone who knows the truth, it’s a flare fired into the sky.
Rafe almost chokes. His fork clatters against his plate.
His eyes go wide, darting from Marco to me like his brain is sprinting to catch up.
He knows that Marco knows. I watch the exact moment it clicks into place for him.
The way his expression shutters. The way he pulls the warmth down like a curtain.
Not relief.
Not gratitude.
Control.
His gaze locks onto mine, sharp and warning, and for the millionth time, my stomach drops.
Fuck.
Have I fucked up again?
Marco, blissfully unaware of the bomb he just tossed, keeps talking, laughing lightly, trying to keep the moment easy. But Rafe isn’t laughing. He’s barely breathing.
His mother starts clearing plates, still smiling, still warm, still unaware she just asked me a question that almost broke me in half.
Marco steps in smoothly, standing. “This was amazing,” he says, all charm. “Seriously. Best lunch I’ve had in… maybe ever.”
Rafe’s mom laughs. “You are sweet.”
Marco gestures toward the front door. “We should probably head out soon, though. Let you get on with your day. And we’ve got to… uh… make sure this guy”—he taps my shoulder lightly—“gets back on time before his coach murders him.”
Rafe’s father chuckles. “Coach is worse than a mother,” he says with mock seriousness.
“Exactly,” Marco agrees.
He turns to Rafe’s mom. “Can we help clean up?”
“No,” she says immediately. “Go. Go. Safe travel.”
Marco nods, then looks at Rafe, his expression shifting into something more deliberate. “Rafe,” he says lightly, “walk us out? I want to see the legendary childhood driveway that produced a rock star.”
Rafe’s mom rolls her eyes fondly. “Legendary,” she repeats.