Chapter 2 #2
His throat works around a swallow. The blush climbs higher, blooming across his cheeks, spilling down his neck. He shifts his weight like his body can’t decide whether to leave or stay. His jaw is tight, but his lips twitch, betraying the ghost of a smile before he forces it flat.
There’s tension thrumming between us now, sharp and electric.
I can feel it in the way his shoulders square, in the way his eyes dart back to mine even when he clearly wants to look anywhere else.
Recognition, embarrassment, something else I can’t quite name—but it’s there, alive in the air between us.
I chuckle. “I’m not here to steal your spotlight. Just checking the place out.”
He huffs, short and disbelieving, but he doesn’t move away. His gaze lingers longer than it should, like he doesn’t trust himself to stop.
And me? My blood’s humming. Because Ollie Marshall—the guy with the perfect smile for cameras, the captain who never cracks—just admitted he knows my face. And he’s blushing about it.
Up close, every detail is sharper. His fingers flex around the towel like he’s keeping time, squeezing once, loosening, squeezing again. His stance is captain-straight—feet planted, shoulders squared—but then one foot shifts half an inch back, like he wants to retreat but won’t let himself.
He drags in a breath, then surprises me by speaking. “You don’t… really look dressed for a workout.” His voice is steady enough, but there’s a hitch at the start, like he had to shove the words out.
I glance down at myself—torn jeans, boots, hoodie sleeves shoved to my elbows. Not exactly gym uniform. I grin. “Maybe I’m not here to work out.”
That earns me a frown, tight and suspicious. “Then why are you here?”
The opening is too good to resist. I lean one shoulder against the wall and let my grin sharpen. “Looking for inspiration.” I let the word hang just long enough, then add, “And I think I found some.”
His throat works around a swallow. His gaze flicks to mine, then away, then back again, like he doesn’t know where to land. His ears flush red this time, a slow climb that betrays him more than anything. He shifts his weight, towel twisting in his hands.
And that’s my signal. I might be cocky, but I’m not cruel. The guy looks like he’s standing on the edge of something he doesn’t want anyone to see.
So I push off the wall and let the grin soften. “Relax. Just messing with you.”
He exhales, tension leaving in a rush he probably doesn’t want me to notice. He nods once, curt, and glances toward his teammates. They’re still loud, oblivious, calling his name again. Duty pulls at him, visible in the set of his shoulders.
“See you around,” he mutters, voice lower now, like it costs him something.
I nod back. “Count on it.”
He turns and strides back to his team, captain mask sliding neatly into place. But I saw it—the flush, the shift, the way my words unsettled him. And I know I’ll be writing about it before the night’s over.
I leave the gym with my pulse still wired and my head full of the look on Ollie Marshall’s face when I dropped the word inspiration.
I’ve seen people flustered before. Hell, I’ve caused it on purpose.
But this? A guy who probably has girls throwing themselves at him like confetti, blushing red from his ears down to his collar? That’s something else.
The sun’s low, smearing everything in gold, just enough to throw my shades on.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see Rosa flashing across the screen.
My little sister doesn’t call unless it’s important.
She prefers blowing up my texts with memes or sending me photos of the dog in ridiculous outfits.
“Hey, kid,” I answer.
“Rafael,” she says, full-name serious, which means she’s about to ask me for something.
“Uh-oh,” I say. “What did you break?”
“Nothing! Well, not yet.” There’s a pause, followed by muffled sounds like she’s moving through the house. “Okay, so Mamá wants to know if you’re coming home for Christmas.”
I groan. “You’re the messenger?”
“Always,” she says with a sigh. “Because you’re her favorite. Don’t deny it.”
“She loves you more. You’re still under her roof.”
“Exactly. Which means I get the chores list while she waxes poetic about your scholarship.” She makes her voice high and dramatic: “Our Rafe, the musician, so talented, so blessed….”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Don’t make me sound like a Hallmark movie.”
“You don’t need help with that,” she fires back. Then, softer, she adds, “So? Are you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll figure out the flights. Can’t promise I’ll be sober for every mass and family dinner, but I’ll show up.”
“That’s all she wants.” There’s a smile in her voice now. “That and maybe for you to wear a button-up that isn’t missing half its buttons.”
“Tell her I’ll think about it.”
“Translation: No.”
“Correct.”
We banter a little more—she updates me on school, the dog, some neighborhood drama—and then we hang up. I slide the phone back into my pocket, chest lighter. Family has that effect, even when they’re pestering.
By the time I reach the apartment, the sun’s nearly gone, the sky a bruising purple. The place is on the edge of campus housing, technically “off campus” but close enough that students cycle past at all hours. The building’s old, stucco cracking, but the rent’s barely affordable split four ways.
Inside, it smells like weed. Not the fresh kind, the lingering, baked-into-the-couch kind.
Drew must’ve had friends over again. But surprisingly, the living room’s tidy.
Empty beer bottles stacked neatly in the recycling bin, guitar cables coiled instead of strangling the coffee table.
Our furniture is all secondhand—couches sagging in the middle, mismatched chairs, a coffee table carved with initials that aren’t ours—but it works. We’ve played gigs in worse spaces.
Miles is on the couch with headphones, scribbling in his notebook, humming under his breath. He glances up, nods, then goes back to his work. That’s Miles. Rhythms, beats, and arrangements over words, music in his head twenty-four seven.
“Anyone else home?” I ask.
“Eli and Drew are at work,” he says without looking up.
“Good.” I kick off my boots, drop my bag, and flop into the armchair by the window. Pulling out my own notebook, I flip to the half-filled page from earlier at the gym. The words itch. They’ve been itching since Monday, but now they’re burning.
I let the pen run.
You saw me, I saw you, in a room full of noise
Your cheeks gave you away when you didn’t have a choice
I don’t need a scoreboard to know what I found
A heartbeat out of rhythm, a captain unbound.
I tap the pen against the page, scribble another line, cross it out, try again. Ollie’s frown hovers in my mind, that furrow between his brows when he’s holding something in. His voice too—low and steady but not made for small talk. It’s different. Real.
Miles looks up finally, eyes sharp. “New song?”
“Maybe.”
“About who?”
I smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He shrugs, unconcerned, and goes back to his scribbles. That’s Miles: no prying, just waiting until the music tells the truth.
I stare at the page a moment longer, then mutter, “Fuck it.” I toss the pen down, pull my laptop onto my knees, and open the ticket site for tomorrow night’s basketball game.
Prices are steep, but I don’t care. I click through the seats until I find one that won’t kill my bank account.
Confirmation email pings my inbox. Done.
I lean back in the chair, grinning to myself. Guess I’m a basketball fan now.
The clock on the wall snaps me out of it. Shit. I’ve lost track of time. My shift at the coffee shop starts in fifteen.
“Later,” I call to Miles, already grabbing my bag again.
“Don’t forget to write it down before it fades,” he says without looking up.
I wave him off and bolt.
The coffee shop sits just outside campus, on the corner where the traffic never really stops.
The neon sign buzzes faintly above the door, a chipped coffee cup glowing against the early December dark.
Inside, the place is humming. It always is this time of year—finals creeping up, students mainlining caffeine like it’s the only thing keeping them alive.
Every table’s full, laptops open, highlighters bleeding neon yellow across thick textbooks.
The hiss of the espresso machine mixes with voices rising and falling, laughter cutting sharp against the low thrum of lo-fi music piped through old speakers.
I slide behind the counter, apron already slung over my head, and fall into rhythm.
Grind, tamp, pull the shot. Steam screaming against milk, the metallic squeal softened by years of background noise.
It’s muscle memory now. Coffee-making is like playing scales: boring, repetitive, but it gets you where you need to be.
Before Monday, this was all I saw. Customers, cups, names scribbled in Sharpie.
Noise. I never paid attention to who came through—faces blurred into one long line, voices I tuned out while I counted tips in my head.
But now? Now I catch myself looking up when the bell above the door jingles, heart jerking like I’ve been plugged into an amp.
And then it happens. A cluster of jocks pile in, laughing too loud, shoulders jostling, presence filling the café like they own it.
They’re impossible not to notice. Big, tall, confident in that easy way.
Basketball players—I recognize them now, thanks to late-night Google spirals and highlight reels.
Awareness thumps hard in my chest. My hand stills on the portafilter, just for a second.
What if he’s with them?
I keep my head down, pretending to fuss with the machine, heart climbing my ribs. It’s stupid, but I hold my breath. Like I’ll hear him before I see him, his voice cutting through the chatter.
But when I glance up, he’s not there.