“You did. Do,” he says, pulling softly on my tie. “That’s kind of the problem,” he replies, not unkindly.
I turn toward him fully now. “We were just talking.” The words sound ridiculous. I’m a gay married man, but it doesn’t stop the sliver of guilt squeezing my chest.
“I know,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But?” I prompt.
“But I saw a room full of people look at you and see a version of your life that doesn’t include me.” His voice is calm and steady. “And I don’t get to correct them.”
“I don’t either,” I say.
He nods. “I know.”
The silence that follows is heavier than before. While it’s not brittle, it is loaded.
“I’m trying to protect us,” I say finally.
“I believe you.”
“And I’m trying to get through preseason without giving anyone a reason to doubt me,” I add. “I need to be… unremarkable.”
Rafe’s lips press together. “You’ve never been that.”
I almost laugh. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says. Then, after a moment, he adds, “I just need you to hear something.”
I brace myself without meaning to.
“I can do this,” he continues. “The lying. The editing. I can be careful. I can be careful for you.”
I reach for his hand, my thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Rafe?—”
“But I can’t do it forever,” he finishes, voice quiet but firm. “I don’t want to be your secret forever.”
The words land cleanly. No accusation. No raised voice. Just truth, placed gently between us like something fragile and unavoidable.
I stare at him, heart pounding slow and heavy. “I don’t know how to promise you that,” I admit.
“I’m not asking for a promise,” he says. “I’m asking you to understand what this costs me.”
“I do,” I say, even as the weight of it settles deeper.
He searches my face. “Do you?”
I think about all the things I haven’t said out loud yet. About the version of the future I keep pushing further away, telling myself it’s reasonable. Telling myself it’s realistic.
“When I’m retired,” I say quietly. The words feel rehearsed, even to my own ears. “When this part of my life isn’t so… fragile.”
Rafe exhales, slow and thoughtful. He doesn’t pull his hand away, but he doesn’t nod either. “Or,” he says after a moment, “when things get easier. When you’re established. When you’re not fighting for space every single day.”
I look at him—really look. How would I even do that?
“I’m not asking you to blow up your career. I just don’t want ‘someday’ to keep moving every time we get close to it.”
That lands harder than anything else he’s said.
I think about Marco’s friendliness. About Dan’s wife offering me a place at her table. About Kirk looming at the edges of the room, loud and careless. About four preseason games and a season that hasn’t even started yet.
