He watches me carefully. “You planning to stay there long-term?”
I look down at the label peeling off my bottle. “This year,” I say slowly, “might be my last.”
The words hang between us.
Dylan doesn’t react big. Just a small nod, like he’s fitting a puzzle piece into place. “Retirement, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
No.
“Yes.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re going to cause absolute chaos when you tell them.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
But this—this isn’t about contracts or stats or locker room speeches. This is about the rest of my life.
Almost eight years.
Almost eight years since I’ve stood in the same space as my husband. Eight years of interviews watched in the dark, concert clips replayed too many times, his voice coming through speakers instead of rooms.
I’ve built a career in that time. A reputation. A legacy, maybe. But there’s a hole shaped exactly like him that nothing else fills.
“I’m going to reach out,” I say, so quietly Dylan almost doesn’t hear it.
“To who?”
I hesitate. Then drag up the courage from the pit of my stomach and say, “Someone I should’ve called a long time ago.”
Dylan doesn’t push. He just nods once. “Good.”
“It might blow up in my face,” I add. “He might tell me to fuck off.”
“Maybe,” Dylan says. “But at least it’ll be the truth.”
I look back at the yard. At the husbands. The kids. The easy touches. The lives built in the open.
I’ve been waiting for the right time. For the perfect moment. For fear to magically loosen its grip and disappear.
It hasn’t.
If anything, it’s gotten smarter. Quieter. Learned how to dress itself up as patience and practicality and long-term planning. Learned how to whispernot yetuntil not yet started sounding like never.
But the cost of staying still is starting to outweigh the risk of moving.
San Francisco isn’t just real estate. It isn’t an investment or a safety net or something to talk about with a financial advisor.
It’s a line in the sand.
Retirement. Distance from the spotlight. A place where I can finally step out of the version of myself that belongs to everyone else and exist as just… a man. I’ve seen it happen. More thanonce. Guys like Ryan Broadwater—out, retired, living their lives quietly, normally. Coaching their kids’ teams. Walking through grocery stores without anyone shoving a camera in their face. The League lets you go, eventually. It forgets you in a way that feels merciful.
I know that won’t be true for Rafe.
Steel Saints are still going strong. They’re not a nostalgia act or a flash-in-the-pan success—they’re established, respected, still very much in demand. Rafe lives in the spotlight now, in a way that’s loud and visible and unavoidable. Interviews. Tours. Crowds chanting his name instead of mine.
