Chapter 14 #2
“Watched the highlights at like 3:00 a.m.,” I admit, and that earns me another small smile, the kind that feels like he’s letting me in on something he doesn’t hand out often.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“Buzzing,” I say, rolling onto my side, propped up on one elbow. My free hand traces the line of muscle across his chest in lazy circles. “Lantern’s manager wants us back next month.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” My grin sneaks out before I can stop it. “It’s nothing huge, just another set—but it’s The Lantern, man. People actually showed up. We didn’t earn enough for gas at our first gig. This time we made more than the bar tabs we racked up.”
His brows lift, impressed. “That’s real.”
“Feels real,” I say softly, eyes searching his. “Feels like maybe we’re not crazy.”
“You’re crazy,” he says, deadpan, but the warmth in his voice cuts the sting. “Crazy good.”
The words land heavier than they should, making my chest ache in a way I’m not ready to unpack. So I deflect, sliding my hand lower, skating along the sharp edges of his abs. He catches my wrist, squeezes, a warning that’s more fond than firm.
“You just played a game in front of thousands,” I remind him. “And then showed up here before the sun came up like it’s nothing.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not nothing.”
I tilt my head. “Then what is it?”
He looks like he might retreat—like the practiced captain face is about to slide back into place. But he doesn’t. He meets my eyes instead. “It’s… good. Being here. With you.”
It’s not a declaration. It’s not anything heavy. But for him? It’s as open as I’ve ever seen him. And it knocks the breath right out of me.
“You’re full of surprises,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. His stubble scrapes my lips, sharp and real.
“Don’t get used to it,” he warns, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrays him.
We fall into a quiet rhythm then, trading touches more than words. My fingers drum against his ribs; his thumb draws lazy lines on my shoulder. The silence isn’t heavy—it’s charged, threaded through with things neither of us is ready to say yet.
Eventually, I break it. “How the hell do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Carry that kind of pressure. Whole team looking at you like you’re the pulse.”
His gaze sharpens, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But then he sighs, long and low, his chest deflating under my hand. “I just… don’t think about it. If I let myself think, I’d choke. So I don’t.”
That sounds too familiar. Too close to the way I’ve been writing lately, chasing songs until my head stops screaming.
I want to tell him that. Want to say same and watch the recognition click between us. But instead I just say, “Guess that makes us both crazy.”
“Guess so.” His lips twitch, then soften into something closer to vulnerable.
We lie together longer, the light outside creeping brighter through my curtains. Somewhere in the apartment, a door slams—probably Miles stumbling back from someone’s bed. The world is waking up, loud and messy, but here, under the covers, it’s just us.
“You staying?” I ask, my hand resting flat over his heart.
He hesitates. “Can’t. Game tape later.”
“Even Sunday?”
“Especially Sunday.” He huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Coach says champions don’t sleep.”
I roll my eyes. “Coach sounds like an asshole.”
He doesn’t argue. Just looks at me with those serious, storm-dark eyes and lets me trace his mouth with my thumb.
“Then at least stay until they notice you’re missing,” I say. “Give me that much.”
He doesn’t answer right away. But then his hand slides up my arm, solid, sure, and he pulls me down into another kiss.
And in that kiss is the answer.
We kiss until my lips ache, until my lungs burn, until I forget what day it is and why time even matters. But time always finds a way back in. His phone buzzes from the pocket of his hoodie where it’s crumpled on my floor, the sound cutting through the stillness. He doesn’t move to grab it.
“You’re ignoring that?” I ask, breathless.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing.
“Bold,” I tease, brushing my mouth against his jaw.
He hums, the sound low and pleased, and I can almost believe we’re in some universe where he can just stay.
But then his arm tightens around me, and I know he feels the clock too.
“You ever wish you could just—” I start, then stop, the words too heavy.
“Just what?” His eyes are on me, steady, even though I know he’s running on fumes.
“Just press pause,” I say. “Hold it here. Not think about the next game, the next gig, the next whatever. Just this.”
His expression shifts, something raw flickering on his face before he covers it. “More than you know.”
His words hit harder than I expect. My chest feels too tight.
I want to tell him everything—about how he’s crawled under my skin, about how the songs I’ve been writing are basically just him translated into chords and rhymes.
Instead, I settle for kissing him again, softer this time, like maybe softness will last longer.
When we break, he tips his head back against my pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “You ever get scared?”
“Of what?”
“Of… wanting too much.” His voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the sheets.
I swallow, the honesty of the question catching me off guard. “All the time.”
He looks at me then, really looks, and it’s like the world shrinks down to just us and the faint morning light. His hand finds mine under the covers, fingers weaving together, and the simple pressure makes my throat ache.
“Thought you didn’t do heavy conversations in bed,” I say, trying for levity.
His lips twitch. “Guess I make exceptions.”
“Lucky me.” I nudge his shoulder with mine, but I don’t let go of his hand.
We stay this way, trading the occasional kiss, our bodies tangled and lazy in the kind of intimacy I didn’t know I’d get with him. And for a little while, I almost believe he might blow off practice and stay.
But his phone buzzes again, insistent this time, and he finally sighs, reaching for it. His brows pull together as he reads whatever’s on the screen.
“Game tape calls?” I guess.
“Yeah.” His voice is flat, resigned.
I hate that tone. I hate how it reminds me that he belongs to more than just me—belongs to a machine bigger than either of us.
“You gotta go,” I say, not hiding the disappointment.
“Yeah.” He sits up, swinging his legs off the bed.
My sheets slip down his back, and I watch the muscles shift as he cleans himself off with the wipes on my bedside table, then pulls his T-shirt over his head.
He looks every bit the athlete, every bit the captain, but there’s still a softness in the curve of his smile when he glances at me.
“You don’t make it easy to leave,” he admits.
“Good,” I shoot back, grinning despite myself. “Wouldn’t want to.”
He leans down and kisses me once more. It’s quick, but lingers just enough to promise more. When he pulls away, his eyes catch mine, and for a beat, neither of us moves.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I remind him, my voice rough.
“I’ll be there.” His tone leaves no room for doubt.
I watch him shoulder his duffel, hoodie half zipped, hair somehow looking pristine despite him shooting his load. He looks like he should be on his way to conquer another court, and yet he pauses at my door, glancing back.
There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite name—longing, maybe, or fear, or both.
“Text me when you’re done,” I say.
He nods, then slips out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room feels too quiet without him, the sheets too cool. I fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling where his question still hangs: You ever get scared of wanting too much?
Yeah. Every damn day.
The front door closes with a snick, and the apartment swallows the sound. For a second, I think I hear his footsteps in the hall, the creak of the stairwell—but then it’s gone, and it’s just me, sprawled in sheets that still smell like him.
I drag a hand down my face, groaning into the quiet. Sleep isn’t coming. Not after that. Not after him.
My body’s wrecked in the best way—every muscle loose, every nerve still humming—but my head?
My head’s a riot. Ollie Marshall just walked out of my room after kissing me like he’d drown without it, after holding my hand like it meant something, after admitting he doesn’t want to think too hard or he’ll choke.
And he’s still the golden boy, still too careful to let anyone see him this way.
But he lets me.
Time and time again.
I roll onto my side, burying my face in his side of the pillow.
My heart is pounding like it’s trying to write its own damn song, and for once I can’t shut it down.
Because this isn’t just lust, isn’t just heat and hunger and the thrill of sneaking around.
I’ve had all that before. Easy, shallow, and forgettable.
This?
Fuck.
This is different. This is dangerous.
I’ve never felt it before—the way he gets under my skin, into my ribs, into my bloodstream.
The way a glance from him can light me up or level me.
The way his blush still plays in my mind like a hook I can’t get rid of.
I’ve written songs about obsession, about attraction, about wanting somebody until it hurt.
But this—this thing that’s happening every time I’m with Ollie—it isn’t just wanting.
It’s falling.
And the worst part? I’ve already hit the ground.
I’m in love with him.
There it is. The words I’ve been ducking, dodging, dancing around like it might bite. It feels too big, too fast, too much, but the second I admit it, my chest loosens like I’ve been holding my breath for days.
I’m in love with Ollie Marshall, the guy with the weight of a team on his shoulders, the guy who compartmentalizes his life so carefully that I’m probably the only crack in the armor.
The guy who can’t stay, but still shows up at my door before dawn, worn-out and smiling like I’m the win he wanted most.
I press the pillow tighter to my face and laugh into it, raw and helpless. I’m so screwed.
But I wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.