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?”
