Page 94 of Mending Hearts
He has two days before Minnesota. I have a conversation with my parents tomorrow.
There will be more headlines. There will be fallout once he returns to the court. But there might also be this—dinner tables and inside jokes and small hands fisted in sweaters and someone choosing to stand beside you when it counts.
Slow, I remind myself again.
But as Ollie’s hand finds mine under the table, warm and steady, I can’t help thinking that maybe slow doesn’t mean small. Maybe it just means intentional.
And maybe, after everything, that’s enough.
15
OLLIE
Rafe tellshis parents he has company. That’s it. That’s the whole warning shot.
He offers no details, no soft-launch explanation, no easing them into the fact that their son has been trending for twenty-four hours straight because he got kissed by a League captain at a gala full of phones.
I heard him on the phone in the kitchen this morning, voice low and steady, speaking Spanish with the kind of casual warmth that makes my chest ache.
It sounds normal. Likethisis normal.
I know better than anyone that Rafe can make anything sound normal when he wants to. It’s how he survives fame. How he keeps people at arm’s length without ever seeming cold. How he’s kept the world from getting too close to the sore spots.
I watch him from the doorway, trying not to hover like a nervous dog, trying not to look like I’m bracing for impact.
He ends the call, sets his phone down, and turns to me. “They said okay,” he says.
“That’s… good,” I manage.
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
I can tell he’s tense anyway. He’s doing that thing where he stretches his fingers one at a time like he’s loosening them, like he’s checking his body is still under his control. His shoulders are slightly higher than usual. His breathing is a little too measured.
People think he’s all swagger and confidence because he can walk onto a stage in front of fifty thousand people and own the air.
But I know the tells. The tiny cracks he refuses to let anyone else see. He’s nervous for a reason, which makes my own anxiety multiply until it feels like it’s crawling under my skin.
Since leaving San Francisco, the photos have been nonstop. There’s no containing it now. There’s noquietly filedandprivateandno headlines.
There are headlines and videos. There are slowed-down clips of our hands in the car like they’re analyzing a crime scene.
A week ago, I thought I could choose how this happened. Now the world is choosing for me in real time. But I also chose first. I made the decision when jealousy and longing lodged deep in my chest and I kissed Rafe in a room full of people.
I’ve spoken to several teammates in the last thirty-six hours—present and former. People I trust. People who are queer, who have been out, who understand this kind of pressure in a way most people don’t.
They were… incredible.
No guilt trips. Nowhy didn’t you tell me.None of that bullshit that sounds like care and feels like someone making your fear about them.
They checked in, offered support, and told me I didn’t owe anyone an explanation on a timeline that wasn’t mine. They reminded me that coming out isn’t one moment. It’s a thousand.
That helped more than they’ll ever know.
I told them the truth I could tell. I told them I’m gay. That I’m dating. I didn’t tell them I’m married. Not yet.
That truth still feels like a live wire in my mouth. Too hot to hold. Too dangerous to let go of without burning everything down.
Rafe meets my eyes before we exit the plane. He’s watching me watch him.
