Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
I’ve played in bars where the walls sweat with heat, in basements where the ceiling’s so low the mic stand barely clears it, in backyards where the cops show up before the second verse. But I’ve never been in a place that buzzes like this.
The stadium hums. That’s the only way to put it.
The air itself vibrates, charged with thousands of conversations overlapping like a messy track mix.
Kids in blue and gold shirts flood the stands, some painted up, some waving signs that say things like GO PANTHERS or BASKETbrAWL TIME.
The smell is popcorn, sweat, and some unholy blend of nacho cheese and disinfectant.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, craning my neck as the crowd ripples with noise.
“This really your first game?” Drew shouts over the din, grinning like an idiot.
“Ever,” I yell back.
He laughs, the sound swallowed by the roar as the band in the student section launches into a brassy fight song. He only occasionally takes in a game, but when I said I was interested, he was the first to offer to come with me. “You look like a tourist.”
“Fuck you,” I say, elbowing him in the ribs.
But he’s right. I do feel like a tourist—out of place in torn jeans and a leather jacket while everyone else is decked out in Panthers gear. But it doesn’t matter. My eyes are already drawn to the court, to the line of players warming up.
And there he is.
Ollie.
Captain. Number 12. Jersey clinging to him, shoulders broad, focus locked in. He bounces the ball twice, shoots, and sinks it like breathing. His teammates whoop and slap his hand, but he just nods, steady as ever. He doesn’t need the noise. He is the noise.
My chest tightens. It’s the first time I’ve seen him on his turf, under lights, with the whole school watching. And it’s—fuck. It’s something.
“You’re staring,” Drew says in my ear.
I snap my head toward him. “I’m observing.”
He smirks. “Sure. Observing with your mouth half-open.”
I shut my mouth and flip him off.
Drew just laughs. He’s enjoying this too much.
The game hasn’t even started and I already feel wired, the energy in the crowd sinking into my skin. People chant, stomp, clap in unison. Every time the announcer’s voice booms out of the speakers, the noise spikes.
When the players line up for tip-off, Drew leans closer. “Okay, so do you even know how this works?”
“Ball goes in hoop,” I say flatly.
He snorts. “Wow. Scholar.”
“You gonna explain or just keep being an ass?”
“Both,” he says cheerfully. “So, see the guy in the middle? They’re gonna toss the ball up, and whoever gets it, that team starts with possession.”
“Possession.”
“Yeah, like in soccer.”
“I don’t watch soccer either.”
“You’re hopeless.” He shakes his head, amused. “Just follow the ball, man. And if our guys score, you cheer. If the other team scores, you boo.”
“That I can handle.”
The ref tosses the ball. The players leap. Ollie moves like gravity’s his friend instead of his enemy, snatching the ball midair and tipping it to a teammate. The crowd explodes. I jolt, adrenaline sparking in my veins.
“See?” Drew says. “He’s good.”
I don’t need the commentary. I can see it. He runs the court like it’s an equation only he knows the answer to—fast but calculated, eyes scanning, body always in control. When the ball comes back to him, he drives in, pivots, passes so clean it’s like the ball just wanted to be where he put it.
I lean forward, hooked.
Drew watches me watch him, smug as hell. “Wow. You’re gone.”
“Shut up.”
“Seriously, I’ve never seen you this focused on anything that isn’t music or tequila.”
I don’t answer. My eyes track Ollie’s every move. The way his hair sticks damp to his forehead already. The crease of concentration between his brows. The way he calls out plays—not loud like his teammates, but clear, decisive, cutting through the noise anyway.
He’s not flashy. He doesn’t need to be. He directs, commands, like the whole court is tuned to his frequency.
It’s unfair how compelling it is.
I tell myself the reasons why I’m watching so intently—like a litany I’ve practiced since our gaze met.
Friendship… I could totally be his friend.
Even as I think it, I call myself a liar.
What I should be doing is backing the fuck up right now before ruining a life that doesn’t belong to me.
Because if there’s even an inkling that he’s interested, abso-fucking-lutely I’m going to make him mine.
My focus is unhealthy and, considering we’ve barely exchanged more than a few syllables, bordering on obsession. But here, with him running the floor like the whole game bends to his will? All reason falls apart in seconds. I can’t drag my eyes off him.
“Rumor has it,” Drew says casually, “he turned down offers to play somewhere else. Big schools. Stayed here because of his family.”
I blink, tearing my eyes from the court. “Where’d you hear that?” I know his parents live thousands of miles away, and honestly, from what I discovered about them and their affiliations, I would have gone as far away as possible too. It just surprises me that there’s gossip about it.
“Friend of a friend. My ex’s roommate’s boyfriend or something.” He shrugs. “Could be bullshit. But it tracks. Look at him—guy’s a control freak.”
I glance back just in time to see Ollie sink a three-pointer. The crowd goes feral. He jogs back down the court, expression steady, not gloating, already thinking about the next play.
Family. Conservative family, if my late-night stalking is right. Governor-family-adjacent. Church dinners and charity galas. That explains the leash he keeps on himself. Explains the polish. But still—the blush. The blush truly doesn’t fit. It’s real.
I find myself gripping the edge of my seat, leaning forward every time he touches the ball. The rest of the players blur together. It’s him I see. Him I can’t stop staring at.
The time half drags and flies at the same time, the crowd a constant wave of sound. Drew keeps “helping” with his half-ass commentary.
“That was a foul.”
“What’s a foul?”
“When you smack the other guy too hard.”
“Too hard?”
“Don’t ask me for specifics, man. I just know the hand-check thing is illegal now.”
“What the fuck is a hand-check?”
“Exactly.”
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You’re useless.”
He grins, unbothered. “But I’m still more useful than you.”
The scoreboard ticks up, points stacking. I don’t really know what’s good or bad, but when Ollie scores, the place erupts, and my chest lights up with it, like I’ve been wired into the whole arena.
At one point, he dives for a loose ball, hits the floor hard, and I feel my stomach clench like I took the fall myself. He pops back up, brushing it off, but my pulse doesn’t settle for a long time after.
“You’re seriously invested,” Drew says, eyebrows raised.
I glare at him. “Don’t you have nachos to eat or something?”
He smirks. “Nope. Watching you squirm is way more entertaining.”
The buzzer blares, signaling halftime. The crowd stands, stretches, floods the aisles. Music blasts through the speakers, some pop track everyone knows the words to. Students dance in their seats as the cheer squad tumbles onto the court.
I stay seated, eyes fixed on the players heading toward the locker room. Ollie’s in the middle, towel slung around his neck, listening to the coach, who’s walking next to him, nodding, serious as ever. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He never does. But then—
He turns his head.
Just a fraction, scanning, maybe instinct. His eyes sweep the stands. And for a second, impossible and sharp, they lock on mine.
My breath stutters.
Recognition flares in his gaze. His brows twitch, the faintest crease of surprise, like he didn’t expect me here, like I’ve just broken a rule he didn’t know I had the power to break.
Heat floods my chest, my neck, all the way to my ears.
He looks away quickly, back to the huddle, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
“Holy shit,” Drew mutters beside me, grinning like the devil. “He saw you.”
I swallow hard, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the music.
Yeah. He saw me. And fuck if that doesn’t set me on fire.
The halftime show is a blur of tumbling and pep and a mascot doing tragic push-ups. I couldn’t care less. I’m stuck on the half second where Ollie’s eyes hit mine like he’d tripped a wire.
Drew elbows me in the ribs. “You’re sweating.”
“It’s hot in here,” I say.
“It’s forty-eight degrees outside, the AC’s pumping in here, and you’re in a leather jacket,” he says. “You’re sweating because Captain Discipline looked up and saw your face.”
I flip him off without looking. The student band crashes into another fight song, and the cheer squad launches someone into the air like physics is a rumor.
Around us, fans chew popcorn, scroll on their phones, shout to friends across aisles.
A guy behind us argues about stats he definitely does not understand.
A dad explains pick-and-roll to a kid who looks like he’d rather be home playing his PlayStation.
The teams jog back out, and the noise resets from social to feral. I try to play it cool, slouch into my seat, but inside I’m a tight wire. I want that look again. I want to know if it was a fluke, if he’ll pretend he didn’t see me, if he’ll pretend I’m the fluke.
The whistle shrieks. The second half snaps open like a trap.
I learn quickly that this game is a pendulum.
We’re up, we’re down, we’re up again. Every possession is a small drama, the crowd’s breath pulled tight and then released in waves.
The visiting team is fast and mean; their point guard talks constant trash.
One of our forwards snarls back and gets whistled for something that makes the student section boo like they paid for it.
“How is that a foul?” I demand, pointing. “They do the same shit every time.”
Drew shrugs. “Reffing is jazz. You just pretend it makes sense.”
I groan. “I hate you.”