For being relieved when the distance made things quieter.
For thinking space was safer than presence.
When we pull up to the mansion, it’s chaos. Cars line the street in every direction. Music thumps through the walls so loud I feel it in my teeth. Lights flash from inside like it’s a club instead of someone’s home.
Vinny parks as close as possible. “We go straight in and straight out,” he says. “Stick close.”
I nod, heart hammering.
Inside, it’s worse.
The smell hits first—alcohol, sweat, something chemical and sharp that makes my nose burn. The room is packed wall to wall with people, bodies pressed together, voices raised over the music. Someone stumbles into me immediately, laughing, apologizing, already gone.
My pulse spikes.
There are lines of white on a glass table near the entrance. Someone is bent over it, snorting openly, no attempt at discretion. Another person watches, amused, filming on their phone.
A cold wave of fear washes through me. If I get photographed here, Coach will lose his mind. The franchise will lose trust, and everything I’ve clawed back since the Kirk incident could evaporate.
But this isn’t about me. This is about Rafe.
Miles leads the way, Vinny close behind me like a shadow, having already told us that Rafe’s in the media room. We move through the crowd with purpose, drawing annoyed looks and drunken protests. Someone shouts Miles’s name from across the room.
My pulse pounds loudly.
The media room is tucked away at the back of the house, and Robyn is standing outside it in the hallway, looking all levels of pissed off. When we push the door open, the sound dims slightly, but the scene inside makes my stomach roll.
There are maybe eight people sprawled across couches and the floor. A coffee table is littered with bottles, crushed cans, white residue smeared carelessly across the surface.
Rafe’s on the couch.
He’s slumped back like gravity won, head tipped against the cushions, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. There’s a whiskey bottle in his hand, loose-fingered, like he forgot what he was holding halfway through the night. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, blinking slow like it takes effort just to stay awake.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
He looks wrecked. Not the playful drunk I know. Not relaxed and laughing. He looks hollowed out, like something vital has been drained from him and replaced with noise and hands and heat.
And there are hands.
A woman is pressed into his side, too close, laughing in his ear like he’s said something charming, like he’s fully there with her. She’s got one arm looped around him possessively, her other hand in his pants, clearly jacking him off. My stomach flips violently.
Rafe doesn’t react. Not really. His body doesn’t lean into it. His hands don’t find her. His mouth doesn’t curve into anything close to intention. He’s just… there. Breathing. Barely conscious.
Something inside me goes ice-cold.
Then molten.
Because this isn’t flirting. This isn’t messy-but-mutual. This is someone touching my husband when he can’t even keep his head upright.
I take a step forward without thinking.
Someone laughs loudly. Someone else does another line, wiping their nose with the back of their hand like it’s normal. Like this whole room is normal.
Rafe’s gaze drifts, unfixed, then catches on me. It takes a beat for recognition to land—like his brain has to fight through the fog to find my face. Then his eyes widen. “Ollie?” he slurs, then tries to push himself upright too fast, shoulders rolling forward like his body is trying to remember how to stand. “Wha—whats youdoins here?”
Heads turn and attention shifts like a spotlight. Heat floods my face, and my hands clench into fists at my sides, pure instinct, pure protective rage.
Miles mutters, low and sharp, “Fuck.”
