“Is this why you’ve never dated publicly?”
“Did your team know?”
“Is this going to affect your captaincy?”
“Ollie, do you have a statement?”
The fans cheer over the top of it.
One of them shouts, “We love you, Ollie!”
Another, louder: “You and Rafe are iconic!”
I can’t help it. I smile.
I wave at them, really wave, not the polite athlete version. Their faces light up. One of them starts crying. That almost undoes me.
The cameras go feral.
“Captain Marshall, some critics say you’ve misled fans?—”
“Ollie, do you think hiding your sexuality makes you a bad role model?”
That one punches through, and my smile falters. I don’t stop moving. Don’t engage. I’ve been trained for this since I was nineteen.
Ignore. Deflect. Survive.
Still, the words cling.
Bad role model.
The security guy from the building lets me in quickly, shutting the heavy glass door behind me before another question can wedge itself through the gap. The noise dulls instantly—still there, but muted. Contained.
The sudden quiet feels like stepping underwater after standing in brutal wind. As soon as I’m alone in the elevator, I lean my head back against the cool wall.
Breathe in.
Four.
Hold.
Four.
Out.
Six.
It’s automatic. Muscle memory from a time when my body used to betray me without warning. When panic attacks would hit like a freight train—vision tunneling, hands numb, heartracing so hard I was convinced it was about to give out. There were months back in my second season where I’d sit on the locker room floor after games, back against metal, pretending to scroll on my phone while trying not to black out.
You’re not dying. You’re not in danger. It will pass.
I press my palm flat against my sternum, feeling the thud of my heart. It’s fast, but it’s steady.
Good.
Fuck.
I’ve been through press storms before. Trades. Injuries. Rumors about my shoulder. Rumors about locker-room tension. Analysts questioning my leadership. I’ve stood at podiums while reporters tried to bait me into saying something stupid.
