This is ours.
We start toward the back corridor that leads to the player exit. Staff and arena security hover in the periphery, giving us space while also making it clear they’re present. The Eagles run a tight ship. Tonight they’re running it even tighter.
As we round a corner, Vinny appears like he’s been summoned by a disturbance in the force. He’s dressed in black, earpiece in, expression flat in a way that reads calm until you know what calm looks like on him. Miles is beside him, grinning at me.
Vinny gives Rafe a look, then me. “Car’s ready,” he says.
Rafe’s hand doesn’t leave mine. “Any issues?” he asks.
“Nothing inside,” Vinny replies. “Outside is a different story.”
I don’t need him to elaborate. I can already hear it—the distant roar of voices somewhere beyond the secure doors, the muffled thud of bodies pressing closer, the staccato of camera shutters that seems to exist even when you can’t see the cameras yet.
Rafe glances at me, a silent check-in.
I nod once.
We reach the exit corridor and the noise spikes like someone turned a dial. Even behind the doors, it’s loud. The kind of loud that doesn’t feel celebratory so much as hungry.
The door swings open and cold air hits my face, sharp and immediate.
Flashbulbs go off in a chain reaction. People shout my name. Rafe’s name. Questions fly so fast they blur into each other.
“Ollie! Why lie to your team?”
“How long have you been married?”
“Is this a stunt?”
“Do you have any words for your fans about lying to them about being gay?”
I keep walking, shoulders squared, grip firm on Rafe’s hand. It would be easy to flinch, to drop his fingers and create distance out of habit.
I don’t. The habit isn’t in charge anymore.
Rafe stays close, posture relaxed in that practiced way of his. He doesn’t antagonize. He doesn’t grin for the cameras. He doesn’t put on the stage persona that could cut a crowd in half with a look. He’s just… present.
Vinny moves ahead of us, clearing the path with his body and his authority. Another security guard flanks our other side, next to Miles, who’s shooting death stares at the reporters who shout the most stupid questions. Vinny’s SUV idles at the curb, engine low and steady.
We get in quickly. The door shuts, and the world quiets.
For a few seconds, none of us speak. The adrenaline is still in my blood, buzzing at the edges. My hands are steady, but my heart is loud. I don’t like how much the noise followed me inside my own skin.
Rafe turns toward me, eyebrows drawn slightly. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
His gaze holds mine until the automatic answer feels too thin.
I inhale. Let it out slowly. “I’m here,” I correct. “That was… a lot.”
“Yeah,” he says, and something in his voice softens. “You did good.”
My breath catches in a way that feels almost ridiculous. I clear it and turn toward the window instead, watching the city blur past in streaks of white and amber once the SUV has pulled away from the curb.
From the other side of Rafe, Miles shifts in his seat. “You didn’t just do good,” he says evenly. “You were composed.”
I glance back at him.
