My throat tightens. I clear it quickly, taking a sip of my beer and not the weird green monstrosity.
Dan seems to sense the moment and claps me on the shoulder. “All right. We have to get out of here, relieve our babysitter from the terrible twins.”
“He’s not even joking.” Jody grins. “Thanks again, Ollie. Happy birthday.”
As they disappear into the crowd, Marco reappears at my side with Carol like he’s been watching for a chance to interrupt.
He points at Rafe. “So you’re the reason he’s like this tonight.”
Rafe blinks. “Like what?”
Marco gestures to the house. “Happy. Social. Smiling like he’s not about to be murdered by overstimulation.”
Rafe laughs. “He loves parties.”
“I hate parties,” I say immediately.
Carol leans in, smirking. “He does not love parties.”
Rafe looks at me with mock offense. “You told me you didn’t mind.”
“I told you I would survive,” I correct.
Rafe keeps the conversation going smoothly, asking Marco about the season, about Carol’s work, about their apartment renovations like he genuinely cares. Marco, shockingly, seems charmed. It’s surreal watching my closest teammate and my husband—myhusband—talk like normal people.
Like this is normal.
Maybe that’s what makes tonight feel so good. The way Rafe has carved out a space where our worlds overlap without collapsing in on us. The way everyone here belongs for a reason.
Even if hardly anyone knows the real one.
A burst of laughter erupts again as Eli climbs onto the arm of the couch like it’s a stage.
“Oh no,” I mutter.
Rafe’s eyes sparkle. “Oh yes.”
Eli raises his drink like he’s about to deliver a State of the Union address. “Attention!”
The crowd reacts immediately—groans, cheers, someone yelling, “Get down.”
Eli waits for quiet in the way performers know how to. It doesn’t fully come, but he accepts the partial attention like it’s enough. He points at me dramatically. “Oliver Marshall.”
I flinch. “Jesus.”
Rafe leans into my ear. “He’s going to make a speech.”
“I hate him,” I whisper back.
“You love him.”
“I do not.”
Rafe just laughs.
Eli continues, “The man. The myth. The birthday bitch.”
The crowd howls. My face heats.
