That relief comes with a cost. It always does.
I shower, change, and check my phone as I pull my hoodie on. Still nothing new from Rafe. That’s been the pattern for the past year since returning from the world tour and then winning two LUMINA Awards.
He’s been out more. Seen more. Always in a group, always laughing, always photographed with a drink in his hand and someone famous or adjacent nearby. The gossip cycles through my feeds whether I want it to or not, headlines framed just ambiguously enough to make my stomach tighten.
Nothing damning. Nothing concrete.
Just enough.
I’ve brought it up as carefully as I can more than once. He brushes it off every time. Tells me he’s fine. Tells me it looks worse than it is. Tells me the industry magnifies everything and that he’s allowed to blow off steam now that the tour’s over.
I want to believe him. I mostly do. But the stories have been stacking up over the past year, and I can’t shake the sense that something is slipping. Not dramatically. Not in a way that would make anyone else panic.
Just… quietly.
Two days ago, Miles texted me out of nowhere.
Miles: You flying in this break?
I stared at the message longer than I should have.
Rafe had mentioned a big party that clashed with the night I’d land—tonight—if Coach did give us the go-ahead for a break. Some private party. Big names. Not my scene, and definitely not something I wanted him to cancel on my account.
I wasn’t even sure then if I was going to fly out. The thought of being the quiet, grounding presence while everyone else buzzed around made my heartbeat falter in a way I couldn’t quite name.
So I hedged.
Me: Maybe. Still figuring it out.
Miles took a while to reply.
Miles: If you can make it, I think it’d be a good idea.
No explanation. No pressure. Just that.
I asked what he meant, but he didn’t answer.
Since then, I haven’t been able to get hold of Rafe. Calls go to voicemail. Texts sit unread longer than usual. When he does reply, it’s brief, affectionate, distant in a way I can’t quite pin down.
I tell myself I’m overthinking it. That we’ve been doing this long enough to survive a rough patch.
Still, I booked the flight and told Miles I was coming, and he arranged a car to pick me up from LAX like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Now, standing in the locker room with my bag slung over my shoulder and the noise of my team around me, the weight of the decision settles in my gut. I’m flying in and hoping for the best. Hoping that whatever Miles didn’t want to say will make sense once I’m there. I’m also hoping that Rafe answers the door.
As I head out, Ryan jogs up beside me. “Hey,” he says, a little awkward. “Uh. Have a good break.”
I smile at him. “You too. Don’t let them scare you.”
He grins. “No promises.”
I step into the cold Minnesota air a few minutes later, breath fogging instantly, and pull my jacket tighter around me.
Three days, a flight west, and a feeling I can’t quite shake, sitting heavy in my chest, as I jump into my SUV to catch my flight and wait for the car Miles says will be there when I land.
The factthat it’s Miles waiting when I walk out of LAX is the first sign something is wrong.
Not a driver with a placard. Not one of the security detail alone, half smiling and professional. Miles, in a black jacket, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw set tight like he’s bracing for impact. Vinny stands a step behind him, scanning the terminal with practiced ease.
