Chapter 9 #2
Ollie’s got a duffel slung across one shoulder, strap biting into the curve of muscle.
Hair damp from the showers, curling a little at the edges.
He looks tired but steady, the kind of tired you earn.
The kind that still carries dignity. His teammates veer off toward the lot, still talking shit.
He hesitates on the steps, like he’s waiting for a beat of silence before he follows.
That’s when his gaze snags on me.
It’s not déjà vu. Not even close. It’s sharper, heavier, like a chord struck too hard. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh since the party, since his mouth pressed to mine and he whispered rules I’ve been ignoring in my head ever since.
His eyes catch mine quick, widen a fraction, and I see it hit him too—the weight of a week’s worth of messages and what we’re not supposed to be. His hand tightens on the strap of his bag.
“You came,” he says. Not surprised exactly. More like he’s making sense of the fact that I’m not just a voice on the other end of a phone anymore.
“Of course I did.” I keep my tone easy, even though my pulse is racing. “What, you think I’d miss my first chance to see you off-screen?”
That gets the tiniest twitch of his mouth, the almost-smile I’ve come to recognize when he’s trying not to give me too much.
He clears his throat, shifts his weight. “Most people would’ve just waited for me to text back.”
“Yeah, well.” I smirk. “I’m not most people. You figured that out already.”
The look he gives me lingers, cautious but curious, like he’s checking if I’m going to push past the line he drew after that kiss. His cheeks don’t pinken this time, but I can still see it in his eyes—the memory of that heat between us.
He steps half an inch closer, like he can’t help it, even if he wishes he could. “This isn’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw working. “It’s different, seeing you here.”
“Different good, or different bad?” I keep it light, teasing, but my chest is tight waiting for his answer.
He exhales through his nose, eyes flicking away and back. “Complicated.”
The word hangs between us, heavier than it should be. And I know if I press right now, if I demand more, he’ll shut down. So I don’t. I roll the cigarette between my fingers once, then tuck it back behind my ear.
“Relax, Captain. I just wanted to remind you I’m real.” My grin softens the edge. “Not just the guy who won’t stop blowing up your phone.”
That gets him. His throat works as he swallows, and something in his shoulders loosens—not much, but enough.
I think that’s it, that he’s going to walk away, when he surprises me. His voice is low, almost tentative. “You got plans for New Year’s?”
I blink. “Not really. Why?”
He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Come to a party. It’s at one of the guys’ houses. Nothing formal. Just… show up.”
For a heartbeat, all I can do is stare. He invited me. Out loud. The corner of my mouth curves, slow and deliberate. “Guess I know what I’m doing for New Year’s, then.”
He nods once, clipped, like that settles it, but his ears are red when he says, “I’ll text you the details.”
He turns toward the lot, and I watch him go, every nerve buzzing, already eager for tomorrow. Once he’s out of sight, I head back to my apartment.
The hallway smells like stale pizza and incense someone must’ve lit to cover the weed while I was gone. My key sticks in the lock, so I shoulder the door open with a grunt.
I barely make it two steps inside before Drew looks up from the couch. He’s sprawled across it like it’s a throne, gaming controller dangling in one hand, half-empty bag of chips balanced on his chest. He pauses his game and squints at me.
“Where the hell were you?” he asks, eyeing me up and down.
“Gym.”
He snorts so loud it echoes down the hall. “Sure. You? In a gym voluntarily? What’s next, pigs flying down Wilshire?”
I toss my jacket at him. He doesn’t even try to dodge. Instead, he lets it smack him in the face because he’s too lazy, then peels it off with a grin and drops it to the floor like it offended him.
“So, the gym,” he repeats, shaking his head. “Man, just admit it—you’ve got a full-on hard-on for a jock. No shame in it. We’re all reaping the rewards.”
Heat creeps up my neck, but I play it cool, striding to the fridge. The inside light blinds me for a second before salvation appears in the form of a cold beer. I crack it open, take a long swig, and let the bitterness settle me.
Miles is at the kitchen table, laptop glowing, headphones slung around his neck. His curls are standing up in about eight directions, which means he’s been editing tracks way too long. He leans back in his chair, eyebrows lifting with interest.
“So that’s it? You’ve traded in basslines for baseline drills?” His grin sharpens. “You smell like gym varnish and bad decisions.”
I take another pull from the bottle, stalling just long enough to make them lean in. “We’re going to a party tomorrow. New Year’s. Off campus.”
Drew actually sits up—not fast, but enough to show I’ve got his attention. He tilts his head and frowns. “Party? Since when do you do parties we don’t play at?”
“Since now.” I take another swig of beer, leaning against the counter.
Miles abandons his laptop entirely, twisting in his chair to face me. “Wait. You mean like that first jock party? The one you told us about after the event?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Round two, but this one I’m sure you can handle since you’re now housebroken.”
Miles shoots me a glare while Drew whistles, low and skeptical. “So, you’re telling me you’re voluntarily going back into the lion’s den?”
“Basketball guys,” I confirm, like that explains everything.
For a solid three beats, the apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Then Drew actually laughs. Not a chuckle—an outright laugh. He drops the controller onto the couch cushions and slaps his knee like he just heard the funniest shit of his life.
“You’re kidding.”
I shake my head, casual as I can manage even though my insides feel like they’re still humming from that moment outside the gym. “Not kidding.”
Miles’s grin is slower, sharper. He crosses his arms over his chest, studying me like I’m a particularly interesting track he’s about to remix. “Oh, he’s definitely getting some.”
I flip him off without heat. “You wish.”
Drew smirks. “I do wish. It’ll change the ‘pining’ lyrics to ‘this is hot and fucking sexy, I’m getting boned’ ones.”
I throw a bottle cap at his head. He ducks, cackling.
“Don’t act like you’re not curious,” Miles says, still eyeing me like he’s lining up a beat drop. “Basketball captain invites you twice? That’s not random. That’s… what’s the word? Intentional.”
“Friendly,” I shoot back.
“Bullshit,” they say in unison.
I flip them both off this time, but it only makes them laugh harder. Drew hums a wedding march, Miles mutters something about me ending up courtside in a custom jersey, and I decide I’ve had enough.
“Enjoy your fantasies,” I say, pushing off the counter and heading for my room. “I’ll be sure to send you a postcard from reality.”
“Make sure it’s a dirty postcard!” Drew yells after me.
Their laughter follows me down the hall, loud and merciless. Assholes.
My phone’s in my pocket, a solid weight against my thigh.
I haven’t checked it since I walked in, but I already know there’s at least one message from him with the party details.
Only, the message alert buzzed twice more after that.
I tell myself it’s nothing—some reminder, a message from my sister maybe.
But my pulse jumps anyway. Because maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s him, saying something more.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. It’s one of those nights where I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, hearing Drew snore down the hall, Eli’s music bleeding faintly through the walls.
My head spins with riffs, fragments of lyrics, and Ollie’s face, that flush in his cheeks refusing to let me rest. When I finally drift off, it’s closer to dawn than I’d like.
By the time I stumble into the kitchen, the place smells like burnt coffee and toast that didn’t quite survive the toaster. Miles is already at the table, laptop open, headphones clamped over his ears. He waves absently with one hand, the other busy sliding faders in his editing software.
“Morning,” he mutters, eyes glued to the screen.
Drew’s shirtless at the counter, pouring orange juice into a bowl like that’s a thing people do. “We’re out of clean mugs,” he says defensively when I give him a look.
Eli shuffles in right behind me, hair like a bird’s nest, hoodie half zipped. “What time is it?” he asks no one in particular.
“Too early,” I grumble, grabbing the coffeepot. It’s half full and looks like it’s been sitting there since midnight, but caffeine is caffeine. I find the mug I hid behind the protein powder that’s been gathering dust for two years, earning me a “What the fuck!” from Drew.
I simply shrug and pour my coffee, take a sip, and immediately regret it. Bitter enough to strip paint.
Miles finally looks up, sliding his headphones down around his neck. “It’s done. One more listen, then we get this sent.” He’s using his “I’m not bullshitting” tone, making it clear any opinions other than “It’s good to go” are unacceptable.
I sink into the seat across from Eli, cradling the mug like the warmth alone might wake me up.
The pressure sits heavy in the room. It always does when deadlines get close.
The demo means more than just another gig—it’s our shot at proving we’re worth something beyond late-night campus shows and thirty bucks split four ways.
Miles hits the space bar. The laptop screen flickers with waveforms, and then the first track kicks in—our fast one.