Rafe doesn’t look back. He keeps his gaze fixed somewhere past Cal, past the audience, like if he looks at me he’ll break.
Or worse—he’ll remember.
The laughter rolls around us like weather. Cal makes a joke. Drew cracks up. Miles smirks. Eli grins.
And me? I sit here, smiling like I’m fine while my heart tries to climb out of my ribs and crawl across the couch to the man who used to be mine.
“And Oliver,” Cal says, turning his attention toward me at last, “you’ve been busy this offseason—and not just on the court.”
My pulse stutters. I nod, forcing my posture into something relaxed. “Yeah.”
Cal smiles, warm and genuinely interested. “I heard you’ve been putting a lot of energy into a charity initiative—something close to your heart.”
Thank God.This—this I can do.This is solid ground. Something I chose. Something I can talk about without my voice catching on a name I’m not allowed to say.
“Yeah,” I say, and it’s easier this time. “It’s a program I invested in a couple of years ago, but this offseason, I’m trying to really raise the profile.”
Miles shifts beside me, attentive. Drew’s gaze sharpens like he’s clocking a storyline. Eli looks openly curious.
Rafe still doesn’t look at me.
I push past the sting.
Cal gestures with his hand. “Tell us about it.”
“It’s basketball-based,” I say, and my voice steadies as I fall into purpose. “We partner with community leagues, mostly supporting kids from immigrant families. A lot of them aredealing with unstable housing, legal uncertainty, parents going through active cases….”
I pause, swallowing the tightness.
“It’s hard to focus on school, hard to focus on sports, when you’re constantly worried about whether your family is going to be ripped apart.”
The room is quieter. Not dead, but listening.
Cal nods slowly. “That’s… heavy.”
“It is,” I say. “But it’s also solvable. Or at least helpable. We connect families with legal resources. We fund education liaisons. We keep kids in gyms, with mentors, with stability. It’s not about saving anyone. It’s about support.”
“Damn,” Eli murmurs.
And then?—
Rafe speaks.
It’s not planned. It’s not smoothed over. It just falls out of him, raw and unchecked, like surprise stole his filter.
“Wait,” he says, turning his head toward me for the first time. “You… you did that?”
The question hangs. It’s small, but it slices through the air like a blade because it’s him talking to me.
Not the audience. Not Cal. Not the camera.
To me.
My heart trips over itself.
I look at him. Really look. He’s openly staring at me, shock written across his face so clearly it almost knocks the breath out of me. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly parted, like he can’t reconcile what he’s hearing with the version of me he’s carried for eight years.
I make myself breathe.