Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
The knock isn’t loud. It’s more like a tired shuffle of knuckles against wood. I’m halfway through tuning my bass on the couch, but the second I hear it, I know.
It’s him.
I don’t even bother asking who it is, just yank the door open.
Ollie fills the frame, broad shoulders bowed, jaw locked so tight it looks like it might snap.
He’s not in workout gear, not in the crisp polo shirts he sometimes wears after team stuff.
Just jeans, sneakers, a hoodie zipped halfway up.
The hood shadows his face, but I don’t need the light to read the storm beneath his skin.
“Hey,” I say softly, worry quick to bubble to life in my gut.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps inside like he needs the safety of walls before he can breathe. The door shuts behind him with a dull click, cutting off the hallway noise, and suddenly it’s just the two of us, him carrying a weight big enough to fill the whole apartment.
“You want a beer?” I ask, already moving to the fridge. While he doesn’t drink heavily during the season, I know he occasionally allows himself one to kickback.
A pause, then a single nod.
I grab two, twist one open and hand it over. His fingers brush mine when he takes it, cold against warm, and that’s the only real spark in him so far. Everything else is tamped down, like he’s forcing himself not to crack.
The living room’s too open. The guys are out, but I don’t trust any of them not to come barreling in. “Bedroom,” I tell him, voice firm, clearly not a suggestion.
He doesn’t push back. He simply follows me down the short hall, beer hanging loose in his grip.
My room’s the usual mess—clothes piled on the chair, notebook open on the desk, a tangle of cables coiled like snakes near the amp—but Ollie doesn’t even blink. He drops onto the bed like his knees gave out and sits hunched over with his elbows on his thighs.
I sit beside him, close but not touching. I let the silence stretch. He’ll talk when he’s ready.
It takes a full minute before he exhales, the sound rough, like he’s been holding it in since morning. “Meeting with Coach.”
My brows lift. “Yeah?”
His mouth works, and then he says, “He wants me to start thinking about the draft.”
The word lands like a bassline dropped too hard—vibrating straight through my chest. Draft. I’ve seen it on TV, watched kids younger than me get picked, lives changed in a single night. For Ollie, it’s not a fantasy. It’s a breath away.
“This year?” I ask, careful.
He nods once, sharp. “Coach thinks if everything keeps trending up, I could go first round.” He runs a hand through his hair, restless. “And January’s when those conversations start getting… real.”
A slow realization clicks. “But technically you’re not a senior until next year.”
“Right.” His voice tightens. “But I’ve been stacking extra units since freshman year—summer classes, online credits.
Coach and academic advising mapped a fast track for me early on.
” He huffs a breath, annoyed at having to justify something he’s clearly worked his ass off for.
“If I stay healthy and this season finishes strong, I can graduate early. I’d be eligible. ”
“That’s huge. Like—massive.”
He doesn’t smile. “My parents don’t care about huge. They care about acceptable.”
There it is—the crack in his voice he tries so hard to seal.
I blink at him, impressed and furious on his behalf all at once. “But they want you to finish school,” I say gently.
“They want me to finish school the way they planned,” he corrects, jaw tightening. “Four years. Proper internship. Then a desk in my dad’s company until the day I die wearing a tie with their last name stitched in gold on the fucking corner.”
The bitterness in his tone isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough to cut through the air between us.
“And basketball?” I ask.
He laughs, once. No humor. “A hobby. A phase. Something I’ll ‘be glad to leave behind’ when I grow up.”
My fists clench against the urge to take a swing at people I’ve never even met.
I lean back on my palms, studying him. He looks like he hasn’t taken a full breath since he left the gym.
Shoulders up around his ears, eyes shadowed.
I want to reach out, press a hand against the back of his neck, rub some of that tension away.
Instead, I take a long pull of my beer to buy myself a second.
“They want you to ditch basketball?”
He laughs, but it’s hollow and ugly. “They don’t even call it basketball.
To them it’s… something I’m wasting time on when I should be focusing on the family business.
My dad keeps reminding me I’ll have to take over someday, that I need to start learning now.
” His grip tightens on the bottle until his knuckles pale.
“And my mom—she just smiles and nods along. Pretends she’s proud when the cameras are around, but behind closed doors?
It’s always the same speech. ‘This isn’t forever, Oliver. Be smart. Don’t get distracted.’”
The bitterness in his voice burns hot.
I can’t help it—I bark out a laugh. Sharp. “Jesus. They really don’t get it, do they?”
Ollie shakes his head, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Then fuck them,” I say. No hesitation, no softening the blow. “Fuck your parents and their perfect plan. You’re not some company puppet, Ollie. You’re a fucking athlete, and a good one. They don’t get to decide what your dream’s worth.”
His head snaps toward me, eyes wide, like no one’s ever said that out loud to him before.
“I mean it,” I add, leaning forward. “Fuck. Them.”
For a second, he just stares, caught between shock and something else—something raw. His lips part, but nothing comes out.
“You’ve worked your ass off for this,” I go on, heat building in my chest. “You lead your team, you put in the hours, you bleed for this sport. And they want to call it a hobby? They can go straight to hell. You’ve got one shot at this, Ollie. Don’t let them steal it from you.”
The silence that follows is thick. He’s still looking at me, eyes stormy, mouth pressed tight. Like he’s fighting not to feel something.
Finally, he huffs a laugh, quiet and shaky. “You don’t get it.”
“Maybe not,” I admit. “But I get you. And I know you’ll regret it every damn day if you let them chain you to that company.”
His throat works, a swallow hard enough that I hear it. His hand shifts on the bottle and loosens. For the first time since he walked in, he sits a little straighter, like the weight’s shifted—even if just an inch.
“You sound so sure,” he says, voice low.
“Because I am.”
Another silence, but this one feels different. Not empty. Charged.
I watch him, the way the shadows cut along his cheekbones, the way his hoodie pulls tight across his shoulders. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know how.
And maybe I’m imagining it, but his breathing’s heavier now. Like he’s finally letting some air in.
Ollie’s hand tightens on the beer again, then loosens like he’s catching himself. His eyes track the floor, then the wall, anywhere but me. That restless energy, that need to control, to keep everything locked down—it’s leaking through the cracks.
I set my own bottle on the nightstand. “Hey,” I say, softer now.
He glances up.
“Look at me.”
He does. And Christ, it guts me. His eyes aren’t just dark—they’re exhausted. Like the weight of his family, his team, his future is pressing down on him all at once.
I shift closer, slowly so he can stop me if he wants. My hand comes up, hovers a second, then lands on the back of his neck. Warm skin under short hair, muscles tight as cables. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move at all.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” I tell him.
His breath shudders out, shaky. The sound of it sinks into me.
He leans—just barely, but enough that his temple brushes mine, enough that his weight tilts toward me. My fingers flex against his neck, steadying the touch.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. The room hums with quiet: traffic outside, the thump of my heart like a kick drum.
Then his free hand comes up, almost tentative, and lands on my thigh. Just a touch, not pressing, not pulling—like he needs the anchor.
“Rafe,” he says, voice low and rough.
“Yeah.”
His eyes close, lashes brushing his skin. He lets his forehead drop against my shoulder. It’s not dramatic, not some big collapse—just him, finally letting go of an inch of control.
I slide my arm around him and draw him in. He’s heavy, all muscle and height, but the weight feels right. Grounding.
“Fuck,” he mutters, muffled into my shirt.
“Yeah,” I answer, because what else is there?
My hand keeps moving, slow strokes up and down his back, over tense shoulders, down to the edge of his hoodie. His body starts to soften, little by little, like he’s remembering what it feels like not to brace for impact every second.
We sit this way for a while—his breath warm against my collarbone, mine hitching every time his hand twitches on my thigh. It’s not sexual, not yet. It’s need. It’s trust.
Finally, he pulls back, just enough to look at me. Our faces are inches apart, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them.
“You really think I can do it,” he says. Not a question.
“I know you can.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he wants to argue, but instead his gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. It’s quick, but I catch it.
The air between us shifts. Thickens.
I don’t move, not yet. I might have blown him before, but we haven’t had a true moment alone to explore further. This has to be his call.
And then, slowly, hesitantly, he leans in.
The kiss is soft at first, remembering. His lips firm, mine yielding.
My hand tightens at his neck, holding him there just long enough for him to feel I’m not going anywhere.
His breath shudders out against my mouth, and he presses closer, deeper, like he’s afraid he’ll lose the chance if he lets go too soon.