Selene’s POV
The interview request comes from a journalist named Rachel Torres—a sports reporter with a reputation for thorough, fair coverage. She's written about athlete mental health, player advocacy, the intersection of personal lives and professional sports. If we're going to tell our story, she's the right person to tell it to.
"Are you sure about this?" Axel asks for the third time as we review the final questions. "Once it's out, we can't take it back."
"We can't take back any of it," I point out. "Cassian made sure of that. The lawsuit is public record. The smear campaign is all over the internet. The only thing we control is the narrative—and right now, we're letting other people tell our story."
Mateo nods slowly. "She's right. Every headline calls it a 'scandal' or a 'situation.' Like we're something that needs to be managed instead of people living our lives."
"So we reframe it." I pull up the statement I've been drafting. "We're not apologizing. We're not explaining. We're simply... existing. Publicly. Without shame."
The interview takes place in our home—my suggestion, so we control the setting. Rachel arrives with a single photographer, no camera crew, respecting our request for print rather than video. Less chance of our words being chopped into soundbites.
She's direct from the start. "I'm going to ask you some uncomfortable questions. You can decline to answer anything, but I think honesty serves you better than deflection."
"Ask whatever you want," I tell her. "We're done hiding."
For two hours, we talk. About how we met—the professional relationship that became something more. About Cassian's infidelity and my choice to go public. About the pregnancy, the impossible genetics, the decision to build a family without knowing whose biology belonged to whom.
"The DNA results," Rachel says carefully. "They're part of the trial evidence. Do you know which children belong to which father?"
"We know the ratio," I admit. "Two and one. But we chose not to learn which specific children carry which man's DNA."
"Why not?"
"Because it doesn't matter." Mateo's voice is steady—he's worked hard to believe this, and it shows. "They're our children. All three of them. Biology gave Selene the pregnancy. Love makes us parents."
Rachel writes something, then looks up. "The league has reportedly pressured you to 'address the situation.' What does that mean to you?"
Axel takes this one. "It means a sponsor doesn't like our lifestyle, so we're supposed to change it. Resign, get traded, break up—whatever makes their marketing department comfortable."
"And your response?"
"My response is that I'm not abandoning my family because someone finds us inconvenient." His voice is controlled but firm. "If sponsors are uncomfortable with who I love, that says something about them. Not about us."
"There's been criticism," Rachel continues, "that your relationship is confusing for the children. That they'll grow up without clear parental roles."
"Our children have three parents who love them unconditionally," I say. "Three people who show up every day, who change diapers and read stories and handle tantrums and celebrate milestones. If that's confusing, it's only because society says families have to look a certain way." I meet her eyes. "We're proof they don't."
The interview winds down. Rachel asks about the trial—we demur, citing pending legal proceedings. She asks about the future—we say we're focused on winning tomorrow, then dealing with whatever comes next.
"One last question," she says, closing her notebook. "What do you want people to understand about your family?"
I look at Axel and Mateo. Think about everything we've survived. Everything we've chosen.
"That different isn't wrong," I say finally. "That love can take shapes that don't fit in boxes. And that fighting for your family—even when the world says you shouldn't have one—is worth every sacrifice."
The article drops three days after the trial begins.
The headline reads: "'Different Isn't Wrong': Inside the Unconventional Family at the Center of the Drummond Lawsuit."
Rachel kept her word—the piece is thorough, fair, humanizing. She presents our story without sensationalism, lets our words speak for themselves. The photos show us at home, with the children, looking like exactly what we are: a family. Not a scandal. Not a situation. Just three people who chose each other and three tiny humans who make everything worth fighting for.
The response is immediate and polarized.
The usual critics surface—religious groups, traditionalist commentators, anonymous internet trolls convinced we're personally responsible for ruining society. Their comments are cruel in predictable ways. I've learned to scroll past without reading.
But louder, this time, are the supporters. Other athletes coming forward in solidarity—some publicly, some through private messages that mean just as much. Parenting groups praising our commitment to our children. An op-ed from a family law professor arguing that legal frameworks need to catch up with modern relationships. A viral tweet from a former teammate saying "Mateo Velasco is the best father I know and anyone who says different can fight me."
#TeamMarlowe trends for sixteen hours. Mateo screenshots it with a grin that reminds me of the man he was before all this—sunshine breaking through clouds.
The sponsor who threatened to withdraw releases a careful statement about "valuing diversity in family structures." They don't pull their funding. Other sponsors reach out expressing interest in "inclusive marketing campaigns."
"Capitalism discovers progressive values pay," Axel observes dryly, echoing something I said weeks ago.
"I'll take it," Mateo says. "However we win, we win."
The league backs down publicly—issues a statement about "respecting employee privacy" and "supporting player welfare." The ultimatum isn't withdrawn, exactly, but it's softened. End of season becomes "ongoing dialogue." Action will be taken becomes "we'll continue to monitor."
It's not victory. It's a pause.
But in a war of attrition, pauses matter.
"We did it," I say that night, curled between them on the couch. The children are asleep. The house is quiet. The article glows on my laptop screen, comments still flooding in.
"We did something," Axel corrects. "The trial's still happening. Cassian's still out there. The league is still watching."
"I know." I close the laptop. "But for today—for this moment—we told our story. On our terms. And people listened."
Mateo pulls me closer. "The numbers are still in my head. Two and one. I don't know if that ever goes away."
"Maybe it doesn't," I admit. "Maybe we just learn to live with it. Choose each other despite it. Wake up every day and decide that the numbers matter less than the people."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Welcome to family." I kiss his temple. "It's all exhausting. It's also the best thing I've ever done."
He laughs—a real laugh, the first one in days—and I feel something loosen in my chest. We're not fixed. We're not whole. We're three people holding together through determination and love and sheer stubbornness, navigating waters no map was ever drawn for.
But we're public now. United. Our story told in our words, reaching people who needed to hear it.
And whatever Cassian does next—whatever the trial brings—he does it knowing the world is watching.