Page 193 of Mending Hearts
I feel like I finally came home.
EPILOGUE
RAFE
THREE YEARS LATER
There arecertain sounds you don’t mistake once you’ve heard them enough. A sold-out arena chanting your band’s name is one of them. A gym full of kids bouncing basketballs while a drum kit gets mic-checked in the corner is another.
The second one is my favorite.
We’re three weeks from the end of the US leg of the Steel Saints tour. We started in New York, zigzagged through Chicago and Dallas and Denver, and we’ve been inching west ever since. The new album went platinum faster than any of us expected, and our world tour starts next year. Management is already throwing around phrases like “legacy phase,” which makes Miles roll his eyes so hard I’m surprised they haven’t detached.
But today isn’t about charts or ticket sales.
Today is about three songs in a community gym in San Diego.
The guys agreed to it without hesitation when Ollie asked. Two-day gap between Phoenix and LA. A small detour south. No staging, no pyro, no theatrics. Just stripped-back versions of three tracks for the kids in the basketball outreach program.
Luca insisted on handling the stage layout himself, which means he’s currently arguing with Marco about speaker placement like he’s not eighteen years old and about to leave for college on a full scholarship.
I lean against the baseline and watch him.
Three years ago, he wouldn’t have met my eye. Now he’s walking around with a clipboard and an opinion.
“That mic stand’s too high,” he tells Miles, who stares down at him in exaggerated offense.
“I’m six foot two,” Miles says gravely.
“You’re dramatic,” Luca shoots back. “Lower it.”
I laugh.
Marco catches my eye from across the gym and shakes his head fondly. He’s still as deeply involved in the program as he was when it first expanded here. If anything, he’s more relentless. He runs workshops, mentors, and makes sure the funding doesn’t disappear when headlines shift.
“Your fault,” Marco calls to me. “You encouraged him.”
“He’s right,” I reply.
Marco snorts.
Across the court, Ollie is standing near the free-throw line, talking quietly with one of the younger kids. He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt with the foundation logo on the chest. Retirement softened him in some ways, sharpened him in others. He doesn’t carry the physical strain of the League anymore, but he still moves like an athlete—controlled, grounded, aware.
He caught the health bug hard when he stopped playing professionally. He tracks sleep like it’s a competition. He meal-preps with religious intensity. He still side-eyes me when I grab gas station snacks on the road.
I still leave damp towels on the bathroom floor.
Marriage is compromise.
Three years in, we’ve learned where to bend and where not to.
He looks up and finds me watching him. His mouth curves, just slightly, and fuck, it still hits.
It’s not the electric, volatile thing it used to be. It’s steadier now. Deeper. Less about collision and more about alignment.
We travel together when we can. He joins tour stops when his foundation schedule allows it. I fly with him to Tucson, San Diego, sometimes Minnesota when the Eagles need him for alumni events or advisory panels. We’ve learned to sync calendars without resenting the distance.
It isn’t perfect.
