“Dude,” Marco says before I can. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge under it now. “You sound like an asshole.”
The room shifts. Not dramatic, but just enough for me to feel it. A few heads turn. Someone lets out a low whistle.
Kirk straightens, eyebrows lifting like he’s amused. “Relax. I’m just saying. Guy’s famous, and Marshall keeps being photographed with him. Good for him.”
“That’s not what you’re saying,” Marco replies evenly.
Kirk shrugs. “You’re reading into it.”
Marco doesn’t smile. “No. I’m listening to it.”
The silence stretches. My pulse is loud in my ears. I can feel the weight of everyone’s awareness pressing in, waiting to see how this resolves. Waiting to see what I do. I say nothing, and fuck if I don’t hate myself for it immediately.
Kirk laughs it off, turning back to his locker. “Whatever, man. Just don’t get all sensitive about it. That’s just what we need in the locker room.”
Marco shoots me a look. There’s no accusation in his expression, but he’ll have seen the photos of us online as well, and while I’ve never mentioned Rafe’s name aloud to anyone here, it’s obvious I’m friends with him and the band that’s blowing up the music industry. Steel Saints, whose members are unapologetically queer.
I nod once, knowing he’s checking in. It feels like a lie.
The conversation moves on the way locker room conversations always do. Someone talks about last night’s game between the Eagles and the Penguins. Someone else complains about traffic. The speaker gets turned up a notch.
Life resumes, but something in me doesn’t. I finish changing and leave without lingering, the guilt already gnawing at my ribs.
Marco catches up to me in the hallway. “You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
He studies me for a second. “You don’t have to let him talk like that.”
The words land gently, which somehow makes them worse. “I know,” I say.
He hesitates, then nods. “If he pulls that shit again, I’ve got it.”
I want to tell him he shouldn’t have to. That it’s not his responsibility. That I’m the one failing here. But saying any of that will tell him more than I’m prepared to tell anyone. Instead, I say, “Thanks.”
The drive home is quiet. The city moves around me, indifferent and loud, and all I can think about is the way I stayed silent. The way it felt easier in the moment to let someone else step in. The way that ease curdles into something ugly the second I’m alone with it.
I tell myself I did it to protect Rafe. That saying something would draw attention. That it would invite questions. That it would make everything harder.
I tell myself a lot of things. None of them make the guilt go away.
My phone buzzes at a red light. A notification.
Another article.
Another photo.
Rafe’s name is everywhere lately. Steel Saints’ first music video drops next week, and the hype machine has shifted into something louder, more relentless. This time the speculation isn’t about him alone. It’s about who he’s standing next to.
The headline is just suggestive enough to do damage without committing to anything.
I recognize the actor immediately. Elliot Hale. He’s everywhere too—award buzz, magazine covers, the kind offace that looks sculpted rather than grown. Out. Confident. Effortlessly adored.
I know the truth. I know Elliot’s starring in the video. I know this is publicity adjacent at best, coincidence amplified by algorithms at worst. It doesn’t matter. The comments are already rolling in. My sternum feels too tight as I scroll. I lock my phone and toss it into the console like it burned me.
At practice the next day, it’s worse.
“Hey,” Smith says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Congrats, man.”
