Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
I’m pacing. Which is bullshit, because I don’t pace.
Not before shows, not before exams, not even when my parents are visiting and my mamá is checking the state of our fridge like the number of expired yogurts is some kind of moral failing.
But right now? I’m a goddamn metronome wearing a path into my shitty secondhand rug, running scales in my head, tapping out rhythms on my thigh, trying not to check my phone again.
He said Sunday. He said yes. He’s coming.
And I hate that I’m worked up over it.
It’s not like I don’t know how this probably ends.
His teammates joke about girls, his face is plastered on flyers, he shakes hands with boosters and church ladies.
Straight, every signal screams. I should take the hint.
But then there was that look. The way his gaze snagged mine and wouldn’t let go.
The heat that flushed his cheeks like someone lit a match under his skin.
So now I’m stuck in this loop. Am I a total idiot for reading into it? Or worse, am I just some asshole convincing myself a straight guy’s blush meant something? Either way, it makes me feel like a dick, and I hate feeling like a dick.
Before I can spiral any harder, there’s a knock at the door.
I freeze mid-step. My pulse goes sideways.
“Come in,” I call, and the door creaks open.
Ollie stands there, tall and composed, except for the way his hand flexes once at his side like he doesn’t know what else to do with it.
He’s in jeans and a sweatshirt that looks like it belongs in a Nike ad.
His hair’s damp, like he showered before coming over.
And his eyes—dark, steady, locked on me—have my stomach in sailor’s knots.
“You made it,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
“Yeah.” He steps in, glances around, and shuts the door.
This was probably not the smartest idea.
My bandmates and I share this apartment, and while they’re gone now—jobs, library, somewhere—I know they’ll trickle back in.
And instead of taking him to some neutral practice room, I’ve brought Ollie Marshall, captain of the Panthers, golden boy of campus, into my room. The one place I can’t fake anything.
The room with the lumpy secondhand sofa that sinks like quicksand, the milk crate full of records I can’t afford a proper shelf for, and the chipped desk littered with half-scribbled lyrics and coffee mugs.
He takes it all in. His gaze lingers on the posters taped unevenly to the wall, the battered amp in the corner, the beat-up acoustic leaning by the bed. And for a split second, I’m tempted to feel embarrassed.
But no. Fuck that. I promised myself a long time ago that I’d be proud of the life I’ve built. Proud of making it work, proud of not needing some gleaming condo or family money to validate me.
So instead, I watch him. Watch how his mouth ticks like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what. Watch how his shoulders are looser than they are in the gym, his eyes softer without the weight of teammates orbiting him.
This—this feels closer to the real Ollie.
“You want the couch?” I ask, nodding at the sofa.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Doesn’t look like it wants me.”
“Fair,” I admit. “It’s been threatening to collapse for months. Don’t lean left too hard.”
He cracks a grin, quick but genuine, and it does something to me I’m not ready to admit.
“Here,” I say, dragging the acoustic forward. “Let’s just play.”
He sits, careful, like even on this sad excuse for furniture he’s taking up too much space. I grab my guitar and settle across from him on the bed. For a moment, it’s quiet except for the creak of strings as we tune, the air thick with things neither of us says.
I strum first, something loose and easy.
He follows, fingers finding chords, and before I know it, we’re sliding into a song we both know.
Old-school, something fun, the kind of thing you can play without thinking.
The tension drains out of me with each measure, replaced by the buzz of sound weaving between us.
“Not bad, Captain,” I say when we finish.
He rolls his eyes, but his smile lingers. “You weren’t too bad yourself.”
We play another. Then another. Conversation slides in between songs, casual at first—classes, professors, the garbage food at the cafeteria. And then, slowly, the dialogue starts to stretch.
“Do you ever take a break?” I ask after we finish a riff, leaning back on my palms.
“Not really.” He wipes a hand across his forehead, even though we’re not exactly sweating. “Season’s brutal. Practice, lifts, film, games. It doesn’t leave much time.”
“But you made time today.” The words are out before I can stop them.
He glances at me, startled, like he didn’t expect me to notice. His mouth opens, then shuts, and he settles on a shrug. “Guess I did.”
It’s a small admission, but it feels like a goddamn earthquake in the quiet of my room.
I shift and pick at a string, trying to tamp down the way my chest is buzzing. “Your teammates say you’re straight,” I blurt, then immediately want to slam my head into the wall.
His head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “What?”
“I mean—fuck, forget I said that.” My face burns.
Smooth, Rafe. Real smooth.
He watches me for a long beat, his expression unreadable, then shakes his head. “People talk too much.”
It’s not a yes. It’s not a no. And that ambiguity? That’s enough to keep me wired.
“Anyway,” he says, steering us back. “What about you? You’re juggling classes, a band, a job….”
“Job keeps me alive, band keeps me sane, classes keep my parents off my ass,” I say with a grin. “Pretty balanced, if you ask me.”
He huffs a laugh. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” I admit. “But nothing worth it ever is.”
For a moment, the only sound is the hum of strings fading into silence. His gaze is on me again, steady and searching, and it’s like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t know I had.
We fall back into music, the conversation weaving through it like a second melody. And somewhere in the spaces between, I start to believe I’m seeing him—not Captain Marshall, not the face on posters, not the perfect son with perfect answers. Just Ollie.
And fuck if that isn’t more dangerous than anything else.
The next song starts without planning. I roll into a riff, and he picks it up as though we’d rehearsed.
His fingers are clean on the frets, quick in ways that surprise me.
This guy’s supposed to be the basketball machine, all body and discipline, but he plays like someone who actually listens—to music, to the notes between notes.
“You’ve done this before,” I say, breaking the rhythm long enough to smirk at him.
His mouth quirks. “Couple of times.”
“Couple?”
He shrugs, eyes still on the strings. “Guitar was the one instrument my parents didn’t force on me.
Guitar…” He trails off, shoulders loosening as his hand slides into the next chord.
“It felt like mine.” It pretty much mirrors what he told me at the music shop, but I listen like it’s the first time.
The way he says it makes me stop. It’s quiet, almost hidden, like he’s admitting something he’s never told anyone.
“That’s the thing,” I say, softer now. “The ones that feel like yours? They’re the ones that stay.”
His eyes flick up at me, sharp and dark. For a second, I forget the chord progression entirely.
I force myself to look back at my fretboard and drag us into a chorus, anything to keep my hands moving while my brain short-circuits. We finish the song, let it trail out into silence, neither of us moving.
Then his knee shifts, brushing the edge of mine. Not intentional. At least, I don’t think so. But my whole body reacts like it was.
I clear my throat, desperate for neutral ground. “So, what do you actually study? You can’t major in basketball.”
He laughs under his breath, low and short. “Business.”
I raise a brow. “Of course. Captain, son of Wisconsin royalty, future CEO.”
His smile falters, and shit—I didn’t mean it like that.
“Hey,” I say quickly. “I wasn’t—look, I get it. Parents shove their vision down your throat, and you either choke on it or find a way to breathe around it. Business isn’t the worst place to land.”
He stares at me for a second longer, then nods, just once. “You’re not wrong.”
I don’t push. Instead, I let the quiet stretch, our guitars still humming faintly between us.
He breaks it first. “What about you? Music major, right?”
“Scholarship kid,” I say, giving him a crooked grin. “My parents worked their asses off to get me here. Every instrument lesson, every recital, every late-night drive to some shitty community theater just so I could practice on a decent piano. Music was the deal. No plan B.”
“Do you want one?” he asks, tilting his head.
“A plan B?”
“Yeah.”
“No.” I meet his gaze and hold it. “I’ve already got the only plan I want.”
Something passes between us then, heavy and electric, like a third note humming under the melody. His cheeks flush again—deep this time, staining the edges of his jawline. And fuck if I don’t feel it in my chest.
I break eye contact first, strumming nonsense until my hands remember they’re supposed to be playing. “So,” I say, keeping my tone unbothered, “what do you do when you’re not running drills or winning games?”
He shrugs, but it’s the most unconvincing shrug I’ve ever seen. “Not much time for anything else.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smirks, faint but real. “What do you want me to say?”
“That you sneak out at night to do slam poetry.”
His laugh startles out of him, genuine and warm, and it does something to me I’m not proud of.
“I don’t,” he says once he recovers.
“Then what?” I press.
He hesitates, like he’s deciding whether or not to tell me the truth. “I read,” he says finally. “A lot. Mostly history. Sometimes novels. It’s… quieter that way.”
Quieter. Yeah, I get that.