Carol frowns. “Training camp soon, right?”
“Two days,” I confirm.
Marco mutters something about coaches being demons.
I pick at my food, appetite still missing. Then another thought hits me like a tap on the shoulder.
“Mina’s birthday is soon,” I say.
Carol smiles. “Two weeks.”
“Shit.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I need to get her a gift.”
Marco’s grin turns sly. “Get her a drum kit.”
Carol kicks him under the table.
“Ow,” Marco says, laughing. “What? It builds character.”
I let the banter wash over me, grateful for it, even while grief still sits heavy in my chest. Because I can’t give up. Not after tonight. Not after seeing him. Not after hearing him sing a song that was always about us and pretending it didn’t rip me in half.
But the fear is still there too.
Will I come out before I retire?
My stomach twists at the thought. I wish I could say yes. Fuck, I wish I could. But the choices I made didn’t vanish just because I’m finally trying to be brave in other ways. The fear didn’t evaporate because I’m tired of carrying it.
And what would be the point of all the hurt and secrets and heartache if I came out right now? If I made this big public gesture while still standing in the same place of fear that kept me silent for years?
There isn’t even a right or wrong.
There’s just… me. My truth. My timeline. My consequences.
I look at Marco and Carol across the table—people who love me, people who know pieces of me and still choose me. And I think about Rafe. About the way he said“I can’t.”About the ring on his right hand. About the charity. About how my heart is still his, even if he never takes it back.
Marco’s gaze sharpens like he can feel my thoughts shifting. He leans forward. “You’re not giving up,” he says, not a question.
I swallow. “No.”
Marco nods once, fierce. “Good.”
Carol squeezes my hand again. “Just… be careful,” she murmurs. “With your heart.”
I laugh, bitter and soft. “Little late for that.”
Morning comes too fast.I’ve slept maybe three hours—if you can call it sleep when your brain keeps replaying a green room doorway and a voice saying“I can’t”like it’s a verdict carved into stone.
Marco’s coffee is the kind that could raise the dead, and he hands me a mug without a word the second I step into his kitchen. Carol is already dressed, hair pinned up, moving around the space with the efficiency of a woman who runs a household and a business and still somehow looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.
“You two have fun playing with balls,” she says, kissing Marco’s cheek, then mine. “Don’t let him teach the kids to trash-talk adults.”
Marco scoffs. “Trash talk is an art form.”
Mina pops up behind her, rubbing her eyes. Tucker is half asleep and clinging to Carol’s leg.
“Uncle Ollie,” Mina mumbles, then yawns. “You’re leaving today?”
“Tonight,” I tell her softly.
