Page 146 of Mending Hearts
When I step out of the tunnel for warm-ups, the sound shifts. It doesn’t explode, but it constricts, like a coil being wound.
The world knows now. Not just that I’m gay. That part is old news as of last week. The world knows I’m married. That I’ve been married. That I’ve kept that marriage private for years.
I adjust the tape on my wrist and lift my gaze toward the lower bowl.
The first thing I notice isn’t hostility. It’s color.
A row of fans near the baseline are draped in rainbow flags over heavy winter coats. A kid has a handmade sign that readsCAPTAIN PRIDEin uneven block letters. A woman a few rowsback holds up her phone and mouths something that looks suspiciously like “Thank you.”
My breath catches unexpectedly.
Across the court, a pocket of visiting fans begin booing.
Not aggressively, but they’re loud enough to make it clear that they’ve chosen their role in tonight’s narrative. I roll my shoulders once and jog toward the corner to take a few jumpers.
The ball feels familiar in my hands. Textured. Certain.
I shoot.
Swish.
The net snaps cleanly and the arena responds with a warm, approving hum. The boos layer over it, sharper this time, but still contained.
The Eagles organization doesn’t tolerate homophobic nonsense. They never have. When Ryan Broadwater came out all those years ago—the first openly gay player in the League—this building stood behind him without hesitation. The franchise made it clear where it stood, and that stance hasn’t wavered since.
A lot of people assume that should have made it easier for me.
Maybe it should have. Maybe if fear were logical, that history would have been enough. But fear rarely answers to reason. It answers to pressure. To expectation. To the weight of being captain and knowing that everything you do reflects on twenty other men.
I don’t owe strangers an explanation for why I stayed silent.
I only owe Rafe.
“Yo.”
Cassius jogs up beside me, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looks the same as he always does before a game—loose, energized, eyes bright with the kind of competitive joy that made him dangerous from day one.
“You good?” he asks.
“I’m good.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s measuring something invisible. “You look steady.”
“That’s the goal.”
He nods, satisfied. “They’re loud tonight.”
“I noticed.”
“Let them be loud,” he says, shrugging. “Drop thirty-five and they’ll get tired.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-five. Efficiently.”
“Of course.”
He grins and jogs backward. “Captain Growth.”
