Chapter 46 Avery
Chapter forty-six
Avery
The moment Olive set foot in my apartment, everything changed.
I’ve known I was in love with Olive Herring for a while now, but watching her rush to me, be there before anyone else, sealed it.
And yet, I can’t ask her to put her life on blast. Can’t ask her to do what I know she wants to. She hasn’t said it yet, but I know how Olive thinks.
So I try to change her mind. I tell her about that night.
How I could’ve killed a man for what he did to my sister.
She listened—really listened—waited until I was done. Then she kissed my tears away. Told me it was okay.
That she would never judge me for doing whatever it took to protect the people I love.
That’s just the type of person I married.
Selfless.
Olive Herring.
When she suggested the press conference, I flat-out refused. Told her there was no fucking way I could show my face in New York anytime soon. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
She shoved me into the shower, laid a suit out on the bed, and by the time I stepped out dressed and ready, I was floored by what I saw in the living room.
All I wanted was to be alone. To live in my thoughts until they wore me down and forced me to leave it all behind.
But she knew I couldn’t. Not right now.
My entire family. Hers too. Ryder. Orlando. All of them standing there, showing up for me in ways no one ever has.
Olive, her mom, her sisters, and her niece—all wearing my jersey. My number. The name Jones across their backs. My mom and Noelle blended in with them like they belonged. Like we were already one big, messy, supportive family.
Even though they’ve never met, they look like they’ve known each other a lifetime.
Hank Herring and Harley Wingrove are both wearing Raptors bomber jackets, my number stitched on the front, with my dad, Isaiah Jones, matching them.
I blink once. Twice. A third time, trying to force the tears away. But with every flutter of my lashes, another one falls. And the more they fall, the less I care who sees.
My dad is the first to pull me in. The man I’ve looked up to my whole life. The one who taught me at four years old that it’s brave to show emotion. To cry if I needed to.
He grips my shoulders, pulls me into his chest, and says, "You’re the best man I know." That’s when I let the rest of my tears fall. Because he taught me it wasn’t weak.
When he lets me go, my mom and Noelle step in, one on either side. Mom wraps her arm around my neck, Noe around my waist. One kisses my temple. The other kisses my cheek. Not a single word between us—but none are needed.
It feels like we’re all grieving. And in a way, I guess we are.
Grieving who I was. The career I had. Everything I’m leaving behind.
After this press conference, I’m hanging up my jersey, and I’ll do it with my head held high and all of them by my side.
When they step away, Olive slips into the space between us. She wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek against my chest.
I breathe her in. Vanilla coconut. Her shampoo overrides any logic I had left—but she steps away before I can make a fool of myself in front of everyone.
"Everybody is here to support you. No matter what you decide to do, Avery. But I will be by your side through it all." She cups my cheeks, and I rest my forehead against hers.
"I love you, Olive. In case you didn’t already know." I kiss her gently, tasting her tears on my lips.
"I know you do. And I—"
"We have to go, Avery. It’s now or never," Orlando says, slipping a piece of paper into my hand, like he somehow knew what she was about to say.
Knew how shit the timing was.
And how perfect, too.
Olive pulls away, nods once, then takes my hand.
Together, we walk out the door, and everyone else follows.
The cameras don’t flash this time. Not like they usually do.
But the clicking? Deafening.
I force myself to tune it out. To focus.
Focus on the speech Orlando drafted for me.
On the words in front of me.
Olive sits beside me, her hand resting in my lap.
Her knee bounces like mad under the table.
I draw a shaky breath, turn to face Olive one last time, then I look out at the people who ruined my life.
My career.
The ones who dragged it all through the mud.
I could call them out by name.
One by one.
List every lie, every headline, every rumor they helped spread.
Tell them how wrong they've been about me.
But I don’t have it in me to fight.
Not anymore.
"Good evening, everybody," I say, clearing my throat.
Three words, and the vultures pounce.
"Mr. Jones, are you here to clear your name?"
"Mr. Jones, are you denying the allegations made against you?"
"Mr. Jones, is there any truth to what was published in Choice Magazine this morning?"
Their words blur into one. I squeeze my eyes shut, blood draining from my face, until Olive’s leg stops bouncing.
I hear her chair scrape back.
My eyes fly open.
No, no, no.
She’s on her feet, and just like that, the room goes dead quiet.
"Good. That got your attention," my wife says, her glare sharp enough to cut anyone who dares to even breathe.
She rips off her cardigan, then rolls up the sleeves of her top.
"This right here?" she snaps, pointing to a fading mark. "It’s from my Goddamn medication."
She yanks her shirt up, revealing the marks on her stomach.
"Medication."
Her finger shakes as she points. She fumbles with the zipper on her jeans.
I reach out to stop her, but she swats my hand away, one brow raised in warning.
Then she turns back to the sea of piranhas. She tugs her jeans down just enough to show a fresh mark—red, raw, and inflamed.
"My. God. Damn. Medication."
She breathes heavily, pulling her cardigan back on, buttoning her jeans with shaking hands.
"What happens between my husband and me is none of your business.
But to think he is capable of leaving these marks on my body?
Unbelievable." She looks down at me. "He made one mistake. One. And you hold it over him like he’s the goddamn devil. You took the game he loved and turned it into something he can’t even look at.
You made him hate the sport. Made this city hate him.
His fucking team hate him. And for what?
" She rests her hands on her hips, waiting for any of them to grow a set of balls, but none of them do.
"Time to wrap it up." Orlando starts, but Olive throws up a hand, silencing him with a single finger.
"I am not finished, Davis."
He backs off, hands raised, retreating to the corner.
"The day the Akira Rain tour started, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. And do you know who’s been with me every single step of the way?"
She waits.
A reporter in the front row raises a finger.
Olive nods.
"Avery Jones?"
"Avery Jones." She punctuates every syllable in my name. "Do you know who has made sure I’ve been rested? Helped me with my injections, knowing how hard it has been for me?"
More voices join in, murmuring my name.
She looks at me. "Avery. Jones."
I stand, thread my fingers through hers. "The man you’ve all created in your heads? The one you’ve painted him to be? He doesn’t exist. Not in my world. Not in his. This man has loved me. Stood by me in ways I never thought possible. I just hope I’ve done the same for him."
With that, she turns on her heels, my hand still in hers, and pulls me toward the exit.
At the door, I pause, turning back to face the crowd. "Just to be clear—I’m retiring from the NBA."
The door clicks shut behind us.
The questions still come, but for the first time in my life, I don’t feel the need to answer a single one.