“I didn’t say husband,” he explains quickly. “I didn’t reveal anything that puts you at risk. I just told them I’m not living alone and that they need to be careful about how they handle my personal details.”
My shoulders sag slightly. “And?” I ask.
“They want a meeting,” he says. “With me. With the guys. With Rachael. And… they asked if I want you involved.”
The room tilts.
Involved.
It sounds like a word that should be empowering, like inclusion. It also sounds like an invitation to danger. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Rafe watches me carefully. “You don’t have to,” he says immediately. “If it makes you uncomfortable?—”
“No,” I interrupt, the word sharp, almost desperate. “No, I… I should.” The firmness in my voice doesn’t match what’s happening inside me.
His expression doesn’t soften the way I expect it to. It tightens instead. Fear flickers across his face.
“Ollie,” he says slowly, cautiously, like he’s approaching something volatile. “Talk to me.”
“I can do it,” I insist. “The meeting. Being involved. I should be.”
His eyes search mine. “You don’t look okay.”
“I am,” I say too quickly. “I just?—”
My chest seizes.
Not tight. Not uncomfortable.
Locked.
It’s like my lungs suddenly forget how to expand all the way, like the air stops halfway in and just… stays there. My heartbeat stutters, then slams hard against my ribs, fast and wrong and completely out of my control.
I suck in a breath, but it doesn’t help. “Oh God,” I whisper.
Rafe is on his feet instantly, kneeling in front of me, his hands warm and solid on my knees. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
I try.
My vision feels tunneled, the edges darkening, the room suddenly too bright and too far away all at once. My fingers tingle, then go numb. My stomach flips violently, nausea rolling through me like a wave.
“I can’t—” My voice breaks. “I can’t?—”
“You’re breathing,” Rafe says, calm but urgent. “You’re breathing even if it doesn’t feel like it. In through your nose. Slow.”
I try.
The breath catches halfway again.
My chest burns.
“I’m not ashamed,” I gasp, words tumbling out in a rush. “I don’t hate myself. I’m not—this isn’t that. I just—I can’t be public. I can’t. Not in my sport. Not yet. I can’t walk into an arena knowing everyone knows who I love. I can’t?—”
My hands shake violently now.
Rafe’s face pales. “Ollie,” he says, voice strained. “You’re panicking.”
“I know,” I choke out. “I know, I know?—”
