Page 168 of Mending Hearts
24
RAFE
We land just before noon,the team flight uneventful in the way I’ve learned to appreciate. No turbulence. No press storm waiting at the gate. Just controlled exits and familiar choreography. I watch Ollie more than I mean to as we move through the private corridor. His shoulder is taped, the white strip visible beneath the collar of his hoodie. He rolls it once as he walks, testing range, testing discomfort.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
He nods, not reflexively but after an actual check-in with his own body. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
That pause before answering matters. Eight years ago, he would have dismissed pain without thinking. Now he measures it. That difference stays with me.
Outside, a small group waits behind the barricades. A couple of photographers. Some fans layered in team colors. One kid draped in a rainbow flag like it’s armor. The sight of it lands somewhere low in my chest. Ollie sees it, too, his expression softening.
His hand finds mine without hesitation.
Not a calculated move. Not a public statement. Just instinct.
The cameras click. Someone calls my name. Another calls his.
We don’t react. We don’t hide either.
We walk like two men who know exactly where they’re going.
Vinny stays just behind us, close enough to intervene but not close enough to intrude. He has that rare skill of being present without becoming the focal point. I don’t have to look at him to know he’s cataloging everything—the angles, the exits, the bodies that linger a second too long.
Inside the SUV, the doors close with a heavy thud that seals out the wind. Ollie sinks into the seat, breath leaving him in a slow release. He rotates his shoulder again, subtle, almost private.
“You sure?” I press.
He gives me a look that says I’m overdoing it, but it’s not annoyed. “I’m sure.”
The driver pulls away smoothly, Vinny in the passenger seat. Traffic is light. The city slides past in washed-out grays and muted brick.
“You want to eat out?” Ollie asks after a few minutes.
I picture a restaurant. The tables too close together. Phones lifted discreetly under the guise of checking messages. An anniversary meal becoming content for someone else’s timeline.
“No,” I say. “Let’s cook.”
He glances at me. “You cooking?”
“I think together we can work it out.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile.
“We’ll grocery shop,” I continue. “Then we go home.”
The word hangs there between us.Home. We’ve lived too long separately. I don’t want that ever again.
He nods once. “Okay.”
Vinny catches my eye in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t ask whether that’s wise. He never does that in front of Ollie. But I know he’s calculating exposure, assessing proximity.
“We’re stopping,” I tell him.
He inclines his head. “I’ll stay close.”
I wouldn’t expect anything less.
