I look back once—just once—as they drag us away. Our eyes lock again, and then the door swings shut between us.
3
OLLIE
The door swingsshut behind them like a final decision.
One second Rafe is in the green room—real, breathing, staring at me like I’m a ghost—and the next he’s gone, pulled away by schedules and handlers and the merciless machinery of television.
I stand here, half a step into the room, my whole body locked in place like someone hit pause on my life.
What.
The.
Fuck.
My brain keeps replaying it in fragments: the door opening, talking to the assistant, and then Eli’s voice, booming across the room like a grenade.
“Holyfuckingshit, Ollie Marshall.”
And then?—
“Rafe.”
My voice. His name. Out loud.
I swallow, but it doesn’t help. My throat is too dry, my pulse too loud. My heart feels like it’s slamming itself against my ribs in panicked Morse code.
Has there been a gas leak? Did I hit my head? Is this some elaborate hallucination brought on by too many late nights and not enough sleep and the cosmic cruelty of missing someone so badly it warps reality?
Because that’s what this feels like.TheTwilight Zone. The part where the protagonist realizes the universe has been watching his misery and finally decided to do something about it—either as a gift or a punishment.
I’m still staring at the door when a voice slides into my awareness.
“…Oliver?”
I blink. Once. Twice. Like my eyes have to reboot.
Adrian Vale is standing a few feet away, angled toward me with that easy actor smile that looks like it was designed in a lab to disarm people. His expression is friendly, but there’s curiosity in it, too, the kind that saysare you okay, man?without asking it directly.
“You all right?” he asks quietly, like we’re conspirators in a room full of staff.
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Jesus Christ, get it together.
This isn’t a locker room. This isn’t a game where I can shove my shock down into muscle memory and do my job. This is television. This is cameras. This is?—
Rafe.
A rush of nausea hits me so suddenly, I have to shift my weight and ground myself. Feet on floor. Shoulders back. Breath in through nose, out through mouth.
Autopilot engages, the same one that’s gotten me through press conferences with a smile stapled to my face while my insides were on fire. “I’m good,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than it has any right to. “Sorry. Long… week.”
Adrian’s eyes soften. “Yeah? You guys just wrapped preseason stuff, right?”
“Offseason,” I correct automatically, then realize I’m being pedantic and add, “But yeah. It’s been busy.”
