Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
Thursday afternoons on campus are a joke.
No one wants to be in class, no one wants to be at practice, and no one wants to admit they’ve already checked out for the weekend.
Students move like zombies—half from exhaustion, half from caffeine that’s keeping them vertical against their will.
The sun throws long shadows across the quad, the kind of gold light photographers would kill for, but most people are too buried in textbooks or phones to notice.
I notice. Not the light—him.
Ollie Marshall.
He comes out of the student center like he owns the place, which, in some ways, he does.
He’s the kind of guy whose face is plastered on posters in the rec hall, captain of the team the “cool” people pretend they don’t care about until March rolls around.
Tall, broad, built like the universe sculpted him for layups and leadership.
His walk is steady, controlled, every stride deliberate.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d rehearsed it.
No teammates surround him today. No posse. Just Ollie, alone, which makes him stand out even more.
I could keep going, mind my own business, maybe grab a coffee before band practice. Instead, my legs betray me, carrying me straight toward him like I don’t believe in free will.
“Heading somewhere interesting, Captain?” I call, slipping into step beside him, grin cocked sharp because it’s the only way I know how to approach a guy like him.
His head tilts, quick glance my way, then back forward. “Town.”
That’s it. One word.
I clap a hand over my heart like he just stabbed me. “Not much of a talker, huh? At least lie and say you’re going for tacos. I can get behind tacos.”
The corner of his mouth twitches before he smothers it. “Not tacos.”
“Unforgivable. Blasphemous, even. LA tacos are basically a sacrament.” Not that I’d say that within hearing distance of my parents.
And then it happens—he laughs.
It’s quick, under his breath, but it’s real. And holy shit, I want to bottle that sound. I didn’t know this guy was capable of laughing at dumb shit.
“Okay, okay,” I say, riding the high of it. “If it’s not tacos, what is it? Please don’t tell me hair gel. Or a secret knitting club. I’ll never recover.”
He just exhales, like he’s deciding if he should answer. Finally, he says, “Music store.”
I trip on a crack in the sidewalk. Actually trip. My toe catches, and I barely stop myself from face-planting.
“You play?” My voice comes out too loud, too shocked.
His brows pull together. “Yeah.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter. “Why is that the most surprising thing I’ve heard all week?”
“You think basketball players can’t own instruments?”
“I think basketball players don’t usually have time to breathe, let alone play. What are we talking here—harmonica? Did you get roped into kazoo lessons?”
Another huff of air, dangerously close to another laugh. His ears turn pink. “Guitar.” He hesitates, then adds, “My parents forced me into piano when I was a kid. I hated it. Then violin. Hated it more. Guitar stuck.”
Something in his tone makes me shut up. He’s not just rattling off trivia—this is something else.
“Why guitar?” I ask, softer.
His jaw works, like he’s not used to answering questions about himself. “They wanted discipline. Structure. I found… escape.”
I chew on that while we pass a group of students lounging on the grass, textbooks spread out like props.
They barely glance up, but a few whisper his name.
Ollie doesn’t react. I watch him instead, the way he keeps his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, like if he lets them out, he’ll give too much away.
“You keep getting more interesting,” I say finally.
His glance is sharp, wary, but not dismissive. He doesn’t tell me to fuck off, which, given who he is, feels like a win.
The edge of campus shifts into town with no warning, just a sudden dip in quality.
The grass gives way to cracked sidewalks, lecture halls to dollar pizza joints, palm trees to power lines that look like they’ll collapse in the next stiff wind.
The air carries exhaust and fried food, a cocktail that says you’ve officially left school property.
A busker sits on the corner, strumming a battered acoustic, voice ragged but earnest. His case is open, a few crumpled bills inside. Ollie’s gaze flicks his way, quick, then away again. Like he’s not allowed to look too long.
I notice. Of course I do.
“So you’re buying what?” I press. “Please don’t say a recorder to accompany your one-man band. Or a cowbell. Tell me you’re not about to drop twenty bucks on a cowbell.”
That earns me another twitch of his mouth. “Strings. My acoustic snapped one.”
“Acoustic,” I repeat, like the word itself is suspicious. “Of course. Captain Marshall, secret folk musician. You’re killing me.”
The blush climbs higher up his neck. He shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.
I grin like a jackal, because this is gold. Ollie Marshall, basketball royalty, playing guitar on the side? Nobody would believe me. But I don’t want to tell anyone. I just want to see it for myself.
We keep walking, and I let the silence stretch longer this time. Not awkward exactly—more like tentative. He’s not running me off. That alone feels monumental.
The shop comes into view ahead, wedged between a vape store and a thrift boutique that reeks of incense. The sign is sun-bleached, half the letters peeling, but I know the place like the back of my hand. It’s heaven for me. For him? I can’t wait to see.
The bell over the shop door jingles as we step inside.
The air changes immediately: warmer, thicker, humming faintly with electricity and the smell of varnished wood.
The walls are crammed with guitars—electric, acoustic, bass—lined up like soldiers or lovers, depending on how you look at them.
Pedals and strings and tuners clutter glass cases, posters curling at the corners advertising shows that happened before some of the students walking past were even born.
I’ve been here a hundred times. For Ollie, judging by the way he freezes near the entrance, this is new ground. He looks out of place and way too tall, like he might knock over a display if he breathes wrong. Hands still in his jacket pockets, jaw tight, eyes scanning but not lingering.
“Rafe!” Frank, the owner, shouts from behind the counter. He’s got a beard like a mountain hermit and a voice that’s always at least half amusement. “Still trying to break my amps?”
“Only with love, Frank,” I shoot back. “Promise.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he goes back to restringing something behind the counter. A couple of kids noodle on electrics in the corner, volume just shy of obnoxious. The place hums with its own kind of music, even in the quiet.
I turn to Ollie, who hasn’t moved past the door. “Come on, Captain. It won’t bite.”
He exhales and finally steps forward, slow, careful. His gaze flicks to the rows of acoustic strings, and I follow him. He scans the options, then reaches for a set like he knows exactly what he wants. Efficient. Of course.
“Strings,” he says simply.
I pluck an acoustic guitar off the wall and hold it out to him. “Show me.”
His head jerks up, eyes wide. “Here?”
“No, in the parking lot,” I deadpan. “Yeah, here. Unless you’re scared.”
The flush that spreads across his cheeks is immediate and fierce. “I’m not scared.”
“Prove it.”
For a second, I think he’s going to refuse. His jaw tightens, his grip on the strings pack firm. Then, with a sigh heavy enough to rattle the windows, he sets the strings on the counter and takes the guitar from me.
He sits on the little stool tucked against the wall, adjusting the strap like he’s done it a thousand times. His hands hover over the strings, hesitation in the set of his shoulders.
Then he plays.
The opening notes of “Nothing Else Matters” spill out, low and deliberate, each one ringing clean in the shop’s warm air. On an acoustic, it’s stripped bare, almost haunting. His focus sharpens; his posture loosens. His fingers move with practiced precision, not flashy, not showy—just honest.
The shop seems to hush around him. The kids in the corner slow their strumming. Even Frank glances up from behind the counter, brows raised.
And me? I’m transfixed.
I grab another guitar off the wall, settle onto the stool across from him, and slide into the chords beneath his melody.
Bass might be my weapon of choice, the anchor that holds our band steady, but I love guitar almost as much.
It’s where I started, and every time I pick one up, it feels like slipping back into an old skin.
My sound wraps around his, grounding it, filling in the spaces.
His eyes flick up, startled, but he doesn’t stop. He adjusts, shifts, lets me in.
And just like that, it’s us.
Two guys in a dusty little shop, guitars humming in harmony, no scoreboard, no spotlight, no spectators. Just sound and breath and the flicker of something neither of us names.
His cheeks are crimson, but his fingers never falter. Our eyes meet mid-rhythm and hold, the air thick between us. My chest tightens, the buzz under my skin electric.
The final chord lingers, vibrating through the wood, until it fades into silence.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
Then I laugh, soft, almost shaky. “Jesus, Captain. You’re full of surprises.”
He ducks his head, trying to shrug it off, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth that he can’t quite kill.
I lean forward, resting my chin on the guitar. “We should do this again.”
His eyes lift, startled.
“No audience,” I add, voice low. “Just us.”
This is where the reason should kick in. A lecture about lines not to cross. Maybe a careful little speech about how he deserves space, deserves safety, how the last thing I should do is light a fire he’s not ready for. They’re all lined up in my head.