Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
I’ve done a lot of dumb shit for inspiration.
Played a half-busted bass until my fingers bled, sat through open mics that smelled like old fries and desperation, once even tried meditating because Miles swore it would “clear the channels.” (Spoiler: All it did was make me want tacos.) But nothing compares to walking into the student gym on a Thursday afternoon like I belong here.
I do not belong here.
The air smells like sweat, sanitizer, and overcompensation. Treadmills line one wall, their belts squeaking in imperfect rhythm, while weights clank in staccato bursts. Big windows let in slanted winter sunlight, the kind that makes the chrome shine and turns every drop of sweat into a glint.
I sling my backpack over one shoulder and pause, scanning the place.
There he is.
Ollie Marshall.
Captain, poster boy, golden boy. The guy I promised myself I wasn’t going to think about after Monday. The one I then immediately googled the second I got back to my apartment. And then googled again the next day. And the next.
What did I find? Too much, yet not enough.
Madison, Wisconsin. Conservative parents—dad runs a big manufacturing company, mom runs a charity that looks good on brochures.
The governor’s name shows up a lot, always standing next to his mom at fundraisers.
That explains the way he walks: rigid, controlled, like every move is being watched. Which it probably is.
The kid’s practically a brand. Clean interviews, no scandals, always talking about discipline, team, focus. No slipups. No cracks. Except for one: that eye contact in the hallway and the red bloom on his cheeks when he realized I was looking back.
It probably meant nothing. But fuck, it lit something. My pen hasn’t stopped moving since. Lyrics spill out faster than I can catch them, half of them trash, some of them electric. “Crimson High” keeps looping in my head like it’s daring me to share it with the world.
But online articles and box scores don’t cut it.
Neither do highlight reels on YouTube. I’ve been asking around, casually—what classes he takes, when he’s on the court, when he hits the gym.
Nothing creepy, just… curiosity with better scheduling.
Right. And now here I am, standing in the doorway of a place I’ve avoided for over three years, lungs tightening like I walked into enemy territory.
I’m not out of shape. I’ve got a couple of dumbbells shoved in the corner of my bedroom, and I run three mornings a week because my lungs are my instrument.
But this? This is a cathedral for bodies.
Big guys, loud guys, women with ponytails whipping as they pound the treadmills, dudes spotting each other with shouts of “Push! Push! You got it, bro!” This is not my scene.
I slide my hoodie sleeves up, tattoos exposed, and feel the eyes.
A couple of preppy kids near the dumbbell rack pause mid-rep.
Their hair is the kind of tidy that costs money, expensive, branded training shirts into shorts, socks pulled high.
They glance at my ink, the ring through my eyebrow, the rips in my jeans, and whisper behind their water bottles.
I grin at them, sharp enough to make one flinch. Yeah, I see you. Stare all you want. I’ve been stared at my whole life. First for being the Mexican kid in a mostly white suburb, then for being the loud one with a bass, then for kissing whoever I wanted without apology. I don’t scare easily.
“Yo, Rafe.”
I glance over. It’s Maurice, a guy from music theory, waving as he wipes down a bench. His headphones dangle around his neck, some rap track spilling faintly out.
“Didn’t think this was your place,” he says with a grin.
“Didn’t either,” I say, sliding my bag into a locker. “Trying something new.”
“Good luck, man. Don’t let the bros eat you alive.”
I chuckle and give him a mock salute.
The thing is, the gym is kind of the opposite of the world I grew up in.
My family never had time for this shit. My papá worked construction until his back gave out, then nights at a warehouse.
My mamá cleaned houses, then later picked up shifts at a bakery.
Their exercise was survival, hauling groceries on the bus, scrubbing floors, working three jobs.
My exercise was chasing my little sister through crowded apartments and carrying amps up three flights of stairs.
LA’s supposed to be this big, diverse dream city.
And in a lot of ways, it is. Walk outside campus and you’ll hear Spanish, Korean, Armenian, and Tagalog all in the same block.
Street vendors selling tamales next to sushi rolls.
My people are everywhere. But here, in this gym full of kids whose parents donate to the college so their names end up on plaques? Not so much.
Not that it stops me.
I head toward the free weights, pretending I know what I’m doing. Out of the corner of my eye, I find him again.
Ollie.
He’s at the squat rack, bar across his shoulders, thighs flexing under his shorts, face locked in concentration.
Some of his teammates hover nearby, loud as hell, talking about last night’s party, some girl who texted back, some professor who’s “a total dick.” Ollie doesn’t join in.
He nods, half smiles, but his focus stays on the bar, on the lift, on the rhythm of his breath.
His control makes sense now. You grow up in a house where every move is watched, you learn to keep yourself tight.
You don’t let shit slip. Still, it’s fascinating.
The frown between his brows, the way his jaw clenches when he drives up from the squat, the moment his shoulders relax only once the bar is racked.
If I could draw, I’d sketch it—every line of his cheekbones, every crease above his eyes. Instead, I use words. Words are my sketches. Words and rhyme and the buzz under my skin every time I see him.
My stomach twists. Jesus, I sound insane. Who does this? Who stalks a guy to a gym just because of one fucking blush?
Me, apparently.
I pull out a notebook from my bag, lean against the wall near the water fountain, and scribble while pretending to check my phone.
Eyes steady, shoulders locked, you never waste a move
You build a cage of discipline, a world you can’t remove
But the blush gave you away, a fire under glass
And I’m the fool who noticed, hoping it would last.
The pen scratches too fast, letters jagged. My pulse is loud in my ears.
“Hey, man, you using this bench?”
I blink up. A kid in a backward cap, shirt clinging with sweat, gestures at the empty bench next to me.
“Nope. All yours.”
“Cool, thanks.” He drops down, grunting through his set. His buddy stands behind him, encouraging in bursts: “Yeah, dude. Easy. Push. Nice.”
I tune them out and look back at Ollie.
He’s alone now, his teammates distracted at another station. He reaches for a towel, swipes it across his face, then glances around.
His gaze snags mine.
It’s not casual. Not accidental. His eyes widen, just slightly, like he’s surprised I’m here. Recognition flashes—yeah, he remembers me. The guy from the hallway, the one who caught him off guard. The one he blushed for.
Heat sparks low in my chest, sudden and sharp.
He doesn’t look away this time. He holds it. Just for a beat. Long enough for me to see the flare in his eyes, the way his lips part like he might speak and then decide against it.
My blood roars, every nerve awake.
Fuck. He saw me. He remembers me. And if the flush creeping up his neck is anything like before, he’s not thrilled about it. Or maybe he is. I can’t tell. Either way, it sets me on fire.
I let my mouth curl into the smallest smile, not a challenge, not an invitation—just an acknowledgment. Yeah, I see you too.
His cheeks bloom, red as ever. The same red that started this mess.
And I swear my pen is already burning for the next verse.
He’s still focused on me. That’s the part that pins me. Most people flinch, break the gaze, pretend they weren’t staring. Not him. He holds it, neck heating, eyes steady like he’s not sure whether to step forward or bolt.
My chest feels tight, but not in a bad way.
It’s a drag, a magnetic pull, like gravity’s playing favorites.
I could stay leaning against the wall, scribbling in my notebook, pretending I’m not here because of him.
That would be safer. Smarter. But the truth is, I don’t want safe.
I want to hear what his voice sounds like when it’s pointed at me, not a reporter, not his teammates.
I want to see if he blushes again up close, if the flush runs hotter when I don’t give him room to escape.
So I move. Boots squeak against polished floor, hoodie sleeves shoved up, tattoos out. I don’t even think about it—I just let the pull drag me closer until I’m standing a few feet from him at the fountain, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” I say, voice casual.
His brow pulls tight. “You—” He clears his throat and grips the edge of the fountain like it’s holding him up. “You’re the guy from the music building.”
The words shouldn’t hit like a punch, but they do. He could’ve brushed me off, acted like I was another forgettable face on campus. Instead, he admits it straight out: He remembers me. My pulse jumps, quick and sharp.
“Yeah,” I say, letting a grin spread slow. “That’s me. Guess I made more of an impression than I thought.”
His eyes widen, then flick away, like the floor tiles might rescue him. His knuckles whiten on the towel. “I just… recognized you.”
That does it. That’s the crack in the perfect captain armor. He didn’t have to give me that, but he did. And fuck if I’m not impressed.
“Well,” I murmur, leaning in just enough to make sure he hears the edge in my voice, “glad to know I’m not completely forgettable.”