The yard feels a little quieter around us. Not uncomfortable, just attentive.
There are pieces of the truth I still don’t say out loud. How I read about deportations and family separations and think about Rafe’s family history. The stories he told me late at night, curled against my chest, about the border crossings of some of his friends growing up and fear and luck and survival.
How loving him rewired my sense of what mattered.
“I invested last year,” I continue. “This offseason, I’m trying to raise the profile. Get more players involved. Sponsorships. Visibility.”
Cassius gestures at my face. “You’re literally visibility.”
“Only while I’m still playing,” I say.
That lands.
Jayden’s voice softens. “You thinking long-term?”
I nod. “I have to.”
Sutton reaches out, squeezes my knee once. Casual and supportive. “It’s good work, Ollie.”
“Yeah,” Cassius adds. “Important work.”
I clear my throat, buying a second. “It shouldn’t be controversial to want kids to feel safe.”
“No,” Jayden agrees. “But here we are.”
Sutton exhales through his nose. “My mom was eleven when she got here,” he says quietly. “Different paperwork. Same fear.”
No one argues with that.
The moment passes the way moments do at barbecues—Mikey yells about burgers, a kid trips, music swells again. Life reasserts itself.
But something has shifted.
I lean back into my chair, beer warm now, and stare at the yard full of people who know pieces of me but not the whole.
The charity isn’t just something I do. It’s proof—to myself, more than anyone—that even while I’ve been hiding, I haven’t been standing still.
Dylan bumps his knee against mine. “So, anything else happening this offseason?”
My shoulders stiffen before I can stop them. I force myself to stay loose, take a drink, and buy a second.
I haven’t told them officially yet, though I just came damn close to hinting. Hell, I haven’t told most people a lot of things. What I haven’t shared is that their captain is bone-tired. That the noise of arenas feels different now—less like adrenaline and more like static. That I’m already counting the days in seasons instead of games.
“I’m actually going to look at some properties in San Francisco,” I admit aloud for the first time. The words feel strange in my mouth. Heavy and real. They also feel safer saying them to a sheriff who has a talent for observation and is also not one of my teammates.
Dylan’s eyebrows go up. “No shit?”
“Yeah.”
“For vacation? Investment?”
“For now,” I say noncommittally.
He studies me for a beat too long. Dylan’s observant in a way that makes you feel like he’s reading the footnotes of your life, not just the headline. “You told the team yet?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. “Not officially.” In truth, I need to keep it quiet from management, something that the guys know if I do end up spilling my guts.
He glances toward the group scattered around the yard. “They’re gonna freak.”