Shattered Hoops (Chords & Courts #2)

Chapter 1

Everything’s about to change. And I can’t wait.

It’s the first clear thought I have.

Not about the cameras. Not about the lights.

Not about the fact that there’s an entire arena full of people, and millions more watching at home.

Just that: the feeling I’ve been holding in my chest since March, since Vegas, since a hotel chapel and a guitar-string ring and a man with ink on his fingers saying I love you.

Now I’m here.

League Draft. Green room. Front-facing table. My parents on either side of me. My agent, Eric, one seat down, scrolling on his phone with all the calm of a man who’s already seen the script.

They all look ready.

I don’t think anyone could be ready for this.

“Oliver, your tie,” my mother says quietly, reaching over to smooth the knot even though it’s already straight.

Her fingers are light on the silk, her movements controlled.

She’s in navy—of course she is—with pearls and a smile she’s been practicing for political fundraisers since before I was born.

“Looks fine,” my father says, not looking up from the program in his hands.

He’s not actually reading it. He’s seen every mock draft, every projection.

He knows where they have me slotted: top three, sometimes first. The phrase franchise cornerstone has been used a few times on TV.

He pretends he doesn’t track every word.

His jaw is tight. It has been for weeks.

I sit very still, hands relaxed on my thighs, shoulders back. I can feel the cameras roving. They want emotion—tears, cheers, something they can replay in slow motion over inspirational music later. They won’t get that from me. That’s not my job, not here.

My job is to look in control. Grateful. Confident.

Golden.

My leg wants to bounce, but I don’t let it. Instead, a pang hits my chest. If Rafe were here, he’d trail his fingers across the nape of my neck in a motion that shouldn’t feel as soothing as it does. I take a steady breath and nod at Cory Roach, a power forward from Nevada, as he passes by.

They’ve put all of us—projected lottery—at a curved row of tables, each with a little nameplate and a bottle of water with the League logo.

The floor is crowded with reporters, boom mics, photographers.

There’s a low roar of conversation under the announcer’s voice as he introduces the event, sponsors, the endless preamble.

I hear my name more than once.

“Best big in the class,” someone says behind me, voice a little too loud. “Instant impact.”

“Kid’s a leader,” another answers. “Coaches rave about him.”

My spine goes straighter. I breathe slowly through my nose.

I’ve been hearing variations of that for months. Years. Before that, it was “a coach’s dream.” “Disciplined.” “Mature beyond his years.”

I wonder what they’d say if they knew there’s a ring threaded onto a leather cord in the pocket of this suit jacket. That somewhere in this city, watching the same broadcast, there’s a man in a worn band tee and messy curls who is legally my husband.

My phone vibrates once against my leg.

My father’s head turns a fraction. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the disapproval tighten the air between us. My mother’s smile doesn’t move.

I slip a hand into my pocket and pull the phone up under the edge of the table, angled away from cameras.

One new message.

Rafe: You breathing?

I exhale. Some of the tension in my shoulders breaks.

I can picture him in the hotel room we booked for him under a fake name, a place we get to be totally alone after this is over and done with. I see him sprawled on the bed, hair damp from a rushed shower, eyes on the screen, biting his lower lip the way he does when he’s trying not to yell.

Me: Yeah. Sort of.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Come back.

Rafe: You look stupid hot. Thought you should know. Your parents look… intense.

A huff of air escapes me, almost a laugh. My mother glances at me. I school my expression.

Me: That’s their default setting.

Another buzz.

Rafe: Hey, Captain. No matter what team calls your name, I’m proud of you. So fucking proud.

My throat tightens.

No one’s told me outright where I’ll go. The mock drafts talk. The commentators talk. Even Eric says, “We’re looking at top three, comfortably.” But no one can guarantee anything. Trades happen. Surprises happen. Owners change their minds.

It’s not in my hands anymore.

But there’s one thing I’ve been holding on to, quiet and stubborn and maybe a little selfish: I want to stay in LA.

Not just because it’s familiar. Not just because of sunshine or traffic or the fact that I’ve built a life there these past three years. Or even because it’s far away from my parents.

Because of him.

Because from the night he tugged me into a music store and put a guitar in my hands to the morning we stumbled out of a Vegas chapel with two rings made of guitar string and too much champagne in our blood, he’s been the part of my life that feels most like mine.

I text as fast as I dare.

Me: If it’s not here, I don’t know how we’ll see each other.

It’s been the heavy boulder on my chest since I officially threw my name into the draft. Rafe’s career is taking off—studio time, showcases, meetings, all of it happening fast—and every step of it keeps him in LA. Permanently.

He signed the contract in March.

He’s here.

Rooted.

Growing.

Taking off.

I’m proud of him. God, I’m proud of him. But a part of me is terrified that I’m about to get drafted to the other side of the country and leave the one thing in my life that feels truly mine.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

Rafe: Don’t think about that.

Three dots appear before his message.

Rafe: Stop worrying.

And then, like he can feel my pulse beating too fast from across the city:

Rafe: We’ll make it work. I’m not going anywhere. I’m locked in here for years, remember? Studio’s in LA. Label’s here. Apartment’s here. My life’s here.

Another bubble.

Rafe: And you’re part of that life. So whatever team calls your name tonight, whatever city flashes on that screen—you and me? We work around it. We find each other. Every damn time.

My chest loosens. Just slightly. Enough for air to get in. Enough for me to breathe like the world isn’t about to tilt under my feet.

Me: You make it sound easy.

Rafe: It won’t be easy.

Rafe: It’ll be worth it.

I shut my eyes. The noise of the draft drops away for a moment. It’s just him. His words. His certainty. His love tucked inside every message he pretends is casual but never really is.

I breathe out.

Me: Okay.

A reply arrives instantly, like he’d been waiting for that word.

Rafe: You’re okay. We’re okay. Now go get your name called.

Rafe: But if there’s any justice in the universe, it’ll be LA. Selfishly, I like you in my bed, Marshall.

Heat creeps up my neck. I lock the phone and slide it back into my pocket before my ears go red enough for the cameras to pick it up.

My mother leans slightly toward me. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” I say. “Just a message from Lawrence.” The governor’s son from back home is my permanent decoy. He actually texted earlier to wish me luck, so it’s not technically a lie.

“Hmm,” she says. “I’m not sure you should be spending so much time connecting with him. He’s not very grounded at the moment. He’s causing all manner of issues back home.”

I don’t answer. Grounded, in her vocabulary, means straight, well-connected, and willing to smile at the right fundraisers.

My father finally closes the program, turning toward me. “I still think you should have finished your degree properly before doing this.”

“We’ve talked about this,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I did finish.”

“You finished early,” he corrects. “You rushed.”

“I took overloads every semester,” I say. “I maintained my GPA. I met with advisors. You saw the emails.” Something I hadn’t discussed with either of them at the time.

He presses his lips together. “Playing professional basketball instead of pursuing a secure position at the firm is not—”

“Not what you wanted.” I finish for him, calm, because we’ve had this conversation so many times I can say his lines along with mine. “I know.”

He looks at me, really looks. There’s frustration there, and fear, and something else I’ve never been able to name. “Oliver, you could have both.”

No, I think, I couldn’t. Not with the way his “both” works. Not with the amount of control he requires.

Out loud, I say nothing. I just meet his eyes, then look back toward the stage.

The commissioner comes out to polite applause. The music swells. Graphics flash across the big screens. The logos of the teams with the worst records fill the arena.

The LA Monarchs crest appears in the mix—a stylized crown over a basketball. Gold and black. The city’s other team. The one that’s been rebuilding for years but hasn’t quite broken through.

They’ve got the third pick this year.

I haven’t allowed myself to hope too hard.

I do now.

The commissioner starts his opening remarks. I’ve heard it all on television before, every year I watched this as a kid in Madison, every year I sat on that ugly brown couch with Lindy and pretended I didn’t want this with a bone-deep ache.

My sister texted me this morning:

Lindy: Don’t be weird on TV.

Lindy: Jk you’re always weird.

Lindy: I love you. Go get everything.

She couldn’t be here. Money, travel, work, life. My parents didn’t push it. My mom mentioned the optics of “too many people” on the broadcast couch. Translation: She wanted two clean parental silhouettes next to me, nothing messy, no surprises.

No Rafe.

My fingers itch toward my pocket again, but I hold still.

The first team is on the clock now. They show a graphic of their needs, their record, the three names they’re “most likely” to choose.

I’m one of them.