Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
The court looks like it’s seen better decades.
Half the paint’s been bleached out by the sun, and weeds are starting to bully through the cracks.
The hoop leans a little left, the chain net rattling in the February breeze.
But Ollie dribbles a ball across it like it’s Madison Square Garden, and I stand here, hoodie sleeves shoved up my arms, wondering how the hell I got here.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and we drove a town over to a busted public park so the college captain could sneak in a game without half the student body watching. I figured we’d talk, maybe find some shady coffee shop. Instead, he brought me here.
“You gonna stand there like you’re scared of the paint, or you actually playing?” he calls.
“I’m pacing myself,” I shoot back, jogging toward him. “You’re the one who said you didn’t want this to count toward your stats.”
A flicker of a smile curves his mouth. He bounces the ball once, hard enough that it smacks into my palm when I stick my hand out. “Check.”
I’ve seen him on TV. In posters. On campus banners. But seeing him here, in a faded hoodie and sweats, his hair messy, his shoulders loose—it’s different. It’s him without the polish, without the crowd.
I dribble clumsily, and he doesn’t even pretend not to laugh.
“Shut up,” I mutter, charging toward the hoop. He shadows me so easily it’s embarrassing, then slaps the ball free with two fingers. “That’s illegal.”
“That’s defense.” He spins, drives toward the other basket, and sinks the layup without breaking a sweat.
I hate him. I love him. I hate that I love watching him like this.
We play for half an hour, maybe more, until my lungs are clawing for air and sweat chills under my shirt. He never goes full tilt, not with me, but he doesn’t baby me either. I get a couple of shots past him. He lets me think I’ve earned them.
Finally we collapse on the curb, passing the ball back and forth between our legs. My thighs burn, my chest heaves, but I can’t stop grinning.
“You’re a menace,” I say.
“And you’re a liability,” he counters, but his voice is lighter than I’m used to hearing. No pressure, no captaincy, just Ollie being… twenty-one.
The ball rests between my feet. I glance sideways at him. “So. How many teams?”
His head jerks. “What?”
“You’ve had scouts at your games, right? Don’t play dumb.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. The sun’s dropping behind the chain-link, painting everything in rust and gold. “Coach says the Warhawks were in the stands last week. Pelicans too. Couple of East Coast teams sniffing around. Eagles were one of them.”
My jaw drops. “You’re just saying that like it’s no big deal?”
“It is a big deal,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “Sounds like the dream to me.”
“Yeah, well, dreams come with strings. One wrong step, one bad month, one injury—poof.” He snaps his fingers. “Gone.”
There’s a sharpness in his voice, like he’s arguing with himself more than me.
“Broken strings,” I mumble. “Still better than never getting the shot.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is on the cracked asphalt, the ball rolling slightly between us. “Maybe,” he says finally. “But it means they’re watching. Every game. Every move. And I can’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
I wait, but he doesn’t finish.
His shoulders stiffen. “They want to know what I’m doing this summer.
My parents. My dad’s already talking about me working at the company, shadowing him, shaking hands, like it’s a foregone conclusion.
My mom’s talking about banquets and fundraisers, making sure I’m visible.
” He exhales hard, like the weight’s pressing down already.
“They want a plan. Certainty. And I can’t give them that—not when I don’t even know where I’ll be after March. ”
I could push. Instead, I lean back on my elbows, staring up at the washed-out sky. “You don’t have to give me certainty either,” I tell him. “Just—if you want me in the stands, I’ll be there. That’s it.”
The silence stretches. I think maybe I’ve said too much. But then his hand comes down on my wrist—warm, firm, and grounding.
When I meet his eyes, it’s like standing too close to a speaker stack: overwhelming, vibrating straight through me. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to. That touch says enough.
We sit there until the shadows lengthen, until the air goes sharp with evening chill. He finally pushes himself up, brushing grit from his palms. “You hungry?”
“Always.”
“Good,” he says. “My treat.”
We end up at a burger shack off the freeway, the kind with neon that flickers and grease you can smell from the parking lot. It’s perfect.
He orders double everything like he hasn’t just run drills all week. I stick with a single burger and fries, but he slides his milkshake across the table anyway.
“Chocolate,” he says.
“You gonna share with everyone else you dunk on too?”
He smirks around a mouthful of fries. “Depends how good they taste.”
I damn near choke on my Coke. “Did you just—”
“What?” His expression is all wide-eyed innocence.
I kick him under the table. He doesn’t even flinch, just steals another fry from my basket.
We talk about nothing for a while. Fries, bad music on the speakers, the couple making out two booths over. But eventually he asks, “How’s the band?”
My chest swells. “We’re ready for this weekend at The Lantern. Friday night.” When the call had come in, the guys and I had all but jizzed in our pants.
Something flickers across his face—pride, maybe. He doesn’t say it, but I see it. He’s proud of me.
“Setlist ready?”
“Mostly. I’ve got a couple of new lyrics I want to try, but we’ll see if the guys don’t mutiny first.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You make it sound like war.”
“Sometimes it is. Creative war.”
He hums, sipping from the shake he stole back. And for a second, the noise of the place drops away. It’s just us, sitting in a cracked booth, our knees brushing under the table. It feels dangerously close to domestic, to something bigger than either of us signed up for.
We linger over cold fries until the place thins out, Ollie pushing crumbs around his tray like he’s avoiding the clock. When he finally checks his phone, his mouth twists.
“Coach,” he mutters.
“You in trouble?”
“No. Just a reminder about tomorrow’s lift.” He sets the phone down like it weighs too much. “Feels like I haven’t stopped since the season started.”
“You haven’t,” I say.
He huffs a laugh, no humor in it. “Yeah.”
We walk back to the car in the kind of silence that isn’t empty, just weighted. The air’s cooler now that the sun’s dipping, enough to bite when the breeze slides under my hoodie. His shoulder brushes mine once, twice, like he doesn’t notice he’s doing it.
By the time we get back to campus, it’s full dark, dorm windows glowing, voices carrying on the quad. He parks in his usual spot, cuts the engine, and just sits there.
“Long day,” I say.
“Yeah.” His fingers drum the steering wheel. Then he glances at me, eyes unreadable in the dash light. “Thanks for going out there.”
“You make it sound like I had better plans.”
“You could’ve.”
“Could’ve,” I agree, then smirk. “Didn’t.”
Something flickers on his face—soft, startled. He looks away first, shaking his head. When I climb out, he gives me a short nod, and I catch him watching until I’ve gone inside.
And fuck if everything after doesn’t shift.
It’s not all at once, but enough to notice.
Over the next week, it’s like we’re orbiting each other closer and closer without naming it.
He finds excuses to text—about food trucks, about a professor who drones on, about the band rehearsing so loud he could hear us from the gym.
I find excuses to show up. A coffee after his morning run. Sitting in on a study session I have no business being in. Following him into the gym, pretending I’m there for the treadmill while I watch him lift like gravity exists just to challenge him.
Every time our eyes catch, there’s a spark of recognition—like we’re both surprised we’re still doing this, and both unwilling to stop.
By Thursday, it’s all I can think about. Rehearsal feels tighter, lyrics sharper, every note a little more electric. Which is how I walk into the apartment with my head still full of him and find Drew and Eli in their usual standoff over the last of the milk.
“You been plastering these all over campus?” Eli waves a flyer at me like it’s Exhibit A.
“Hell yeah,” I say, dropping my bag. “Lantern gig’s tomorrow. We want bodies in the room.”
Drew grins, eyes alight. “You’re psyched.”
I flop on the couch, snagging their leftover pizza. “Damn right. Manager said if we hold a crowd for the full set, he’ll book us again.”
Eli whistles low. “Big time.”
“Big first step,” I correct, but my chest still swells. I want this so bad it hurts.
My phone buzzes. A message from Ollie appears.
Ollie: Game Saturday. Home.
I type back before I can think better of it.
Me: Wouldn’t miss it.
And suddenly Friday feels like it’s already humming under my skin.
The Lantern’s packed by the time we go on. Word must’ve spread, because the floor’s shoulder to shoulder, neon lights flashing off beer glasses. It’s the kind of crowd we’ve been chasing for months. And he’s here. Ollie. Hood up near the back, trying to disappear. But I’d find him anywhere.
The set burns. I play like my veins are charged, like every lyric I’ve scribbled with his face in my head is finally taking flight.
The crowd roars back, feeding us, and it feels like standing at the edge of something huge.
Midway through a song, I catch him watching me.
Not the band. Me. His eyes are dark, intent, and when the chorus hits, he’s still locked on. I almost miss my cue.