I want to say his name out loud. I want to thank him for every late-night phone call, every text that started withYou okay?and ended withI love you, every song he played for me before anyone else heard it. I want to tell the world that the man who held my face in his hands in a Vegas chapel is the reason I didn’t crack under the weight of all this.
Instead, I do what I’m supposed to do. I shake the commissioner’s hand again. I hold up the jersey. I answer the quick hallway interview questions from the sideline reporter.
“How does it feel to stay in LA, Oliver?”
“It feels… incredible,” I say, truth sliding easily into the polished answer. “This city’s been my home the past few years. I’m excited to represent it at the next level.”
“What can Monarchs fans expect from you?”
“A guy who shows up. Who does the work. Who leads. Someone they can count on.”
“Anyone you want to thank tonight?”
My parents’ faces hover in my peripheral vision. My agent. Old coaches. Teammates. Lindy, sitting on the couch in Madison screaming at the TV. My mom’s best friend, the governor, probably watching from some donor’s living room with canapés on silver trays.
And Rafe. Always Rafe.
“I want to thank my family,” I say, because that’s what they expect. “My coaches. My teammates. Everyone who’s believed in me along the way.”
The reporter nods. We wrap. When the camera pulls back, I exhale slowly.
On the way back to the table, I feel my phone buzz again. Multiple times. I don’t check it yet. Cameras are still on me. People want to shake my hand, clap my shoulder, call out congratulations.
I do all the right things. Smile. Nod. Speak clearly. Sit down between my parents again. My mother dabs at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. My father straightens my cap for me.
“You did well,” he says. “Handled yourself properly.”
“Thank you,” I answer.
It’s not the praise I used to crave. It doesn’t have to be.
I slide a hand into my pocket, shielded by the tablecloth, and unlock my phone.
Five messages.
Rafe: YOU FUCKING DID IT!
Rafe: LA.
Rafe: L FUCKING A, OLLIE.
Rafe: I’m yelling so loud security’s gonna kick me out of this hotel.
Rafe: I love you so fucking much. So proud of you I can’t see straight.
My chest aches in the best way. My eyes sting for real this time. I type back, fingers clumsy.
Me: I’m staying. I’m not leaving.
Rafe: Damn right you’re not. You’re coming right here after this. I’m making you dinner.
Rafe: Okay, ordering you dinner.
Rafe: Kiss the camera again later. Pretend it’s me.
I huff a laugh that I turn into a cough. My mother frowns, then goes back to her careful watching of the proceedings, probably already thinking about statements and appearances and the Church’s opinion on pro sports.
My father sits straighter, already in conversation with Eric about “brand strategy.” I tune them out, because for the first time in a long time, the noise around me doesn’t feel bigger than the thing I’m holding inside.
