I huff a laugh that comes out sharp.
“What’d Ollie say after his call with Eric?” he asks, because he knows I need something concrete to hold on to.
“Eric’s already there, and apparently… he took it in stride.” None of that surprised me. Agents and managers thrive in chaos. They treat disasters like puzzles. They don’t panic. They plan.
“Any update from Rachael?” I ask. Since he arrived at my place yesterday, he’s taken some of the reins—and the pressure—off me.
“She’s still in her ‘I will burn the world down calmly’ era,” Miles says.
That sounds right. I grin despite myself. “That’s her default era.”
Miles nods. “Also, the Eagles issued a support statement.”
My stomach loosens a fraction. “Good.”
“No mention of the marriage publicly,” he adds. “Just support, privacy, asking people to back off.”
“Smart,” I say automatically, then pause. “And the GM’s on his side?”
Miles’s mouth quirks. “Seems like it. According to Rachael, the GM basically said, ‘We care about Ollie’s leadership and his health. The rest is his business.’”
A tight, hot emotion climbs into my throat. Relief, gratitude, and fury that we need relief and gratitude for the bare minimum of decency.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Good.”
Miles shifts slightly, elbow resting on his knee. “So, Ollie really told Eric… everything?”
My heart jolts. “Yeah.”
Miles glances at me. “That’s good.”
It is.Everythingis twelve years of secrecy. Eight years of silence. A marriage that existed in the dark. A break that carved both of us open. Rehab. Fear. All the parts we didn’t let anyone touch.
I swallow, my emotion still stuck on the pride I felt yesterday when he spoke to me after his call with Eric.
He did it. Ollie finally did it.The thought keeps hitting me with a strange mix of pride and grief. Pride that he’s choosing truth now. Grief for how long it took us to get here.
My phone vibrates again. This time I glance. It’s Ollie. My chest loosens instantly.
Ollie: They’re still outside. Cass is here. Eric’s upstairs.
Ollie: I’m okay.
Ollie: Hurry anyway.
I type back.
Me: Ten minutes. Don’t look out the window.
Miles watches me text, then leans back. “You’re doing good.”
I scoff. “Am I?”
“You didn’t drink,” he says plainly. “You called for help. You’re showing up.”
My throat burns. I look out the window again because if I look at him too long, I might do something humiliating like cry.
Vinny slows as we approach the building. Even from a block away, I can see the crowd, the cameras clustered like insects around a streetlamp. Paparazzi, obviously. Press. Bloggers. Randoms with phones. And then—fans.
