Chapter 16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
The sun’s barely up when I roll onto my side and find him still here. For a second, I think I’m dreaming. Ollie Marshall is half tangled in my sheets, arm heavy across my stomach like it belongs there.
We haven’t gone all the way yet. That’s by design.
I could’ve pushed, could’ve tried to get him to tumble headfirst into every reckless thing I want from him, but I didn’t.
I won’t. He’s too new to this, too careful with himself, and if slowing down is what it takes, I’ll take it.
What we’ve had—kisses so deep they steal hours, hands and mouths on skin until we’re both shaking—has been more than enough.
And now he’s here, when he should already be with his team, when March Madness is starting and everything’s about to get louder for him than it’s ever been.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sound makes him jolt, shoulders stiff. He sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face before he grabs it. “Mom,” he mutters under his breath, then swipes to answer.
I stay quiet, half propped on my elbow, pretending not to listen when every nerve in me is tuned to his voice.
“Yeah, Mom. I know.” A pause. His jaw tightens.
“Yes, I’ll call after the game.” Another pause, longer.
He looks away from me, out the window where morning light spills between blinds.
“Dad said that?” His tone drops, clipped.
“It’s the first game of the tournament. No, I can’t… . I don’t have time to sit down and—”
His shoulders are knotted so tight, I want to reach out and knead them loose, but I don’t. He sharply exhales through his nose.
And then snaps, “What? Mom, I don’t need you introducing me to anyone. I said no—” His lips press into a line. “Fine. Tell her I’ll… think about it. But I can’t do this now.”
Something ugly twists hot and sharp under my ribs.
A woman. His mom wants him to meet some woman.
My jealousy is instant and fierce, so raw it takes me by surprise.
I dig my nails into the sheet, forcing myself not to demand details, not to snarl out the possessiveness clawing at the back of my throat.
He listens again, his expression unreadable. Then he says, “I’ve got to go. Goodbye, Mom.”
He hangs up but doesn’t move right away. He just sits there with the phone gripped in his hand, staring at nothing.
I can’t not say something. “You okay?”
He looks at me then, finally, and it’s all over his face—the frustration, the exhaustion, the weight of being everybody’s golden boy.
“They want me to lock down a summer internship at my dad’s company.
Like, today. Like I can juggle that while I’m flying out for the biggest games of my life.
” His laugh is flat and bitter. “Basketball’s still a phase.
The real future is sitting in some office wearing a tie, making sure I’ve earned my seat at the table. ”
I sit up, too, pulling the sheet with me, heart clenching in my chest. “That’s insane. This is your moment.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He tosses the phone down and scrubs both hands over his face. “To them it’s never enough. If I win, it’s expected. If I lose, it proves their point.” His voice roughens. “And the worst part? I still want them to be proud.”
The ache in his words goes straight through me.
I think about the call I made to my own parents last week.
About telling them we’d been approached after The Lantern gig, that Vegas is happening, that I’m not coming home this month because I need to focus, need to chase this.
And instead of threats or guilt, I got cheers.
Papá told me to work hard and stay humble.
Mamá cried because she was proud. My sister made me promise to send her videos.
We come from different worlds, me and Ollie. But right now, the only thing I want is to bridge the gap.
I touch his wrist, aiming for gentle and grounding. “You don’t have to figure it all out today.”
His eyes flick to mine. What I see is raw and searching, and the mask he wears everywhere else—the captain, the golden son, the politician’s perfect guest—is gone. It’s just him.
And before I can stop myself, the jealousy that’s been burning holes in me since he said the word her claws its way out. “That thing your mom said. About wanting you to meet someone…. Is that… what you want?”
His head snaps toward me, startled. “What? No.” His voice is quick and sharp. “It’s what they want. Always what they want.”
I swallow, throat dry. “So what do you want? I mean—are you…” The word lodges heavy in my chest. “Are you even into guys? Or is this just….”
For a moment, he just stares at me. Then he exhales, long and rough, like he’s been holding it for years. “I’ve dated girls before. But it was all image. The captain with a pretty girlfriend on his arm. The son who looks like he’s following the script. It wasn’t real. Not for me.”
His voice drops lower, filling with a bitterness that hurts my gut.
“My parents—especially my dad—they’ve got this version of Christianity they wave around like a weapon.
All fire and brimstone, all rules and control.
There’s no room in that for… this. For me.
” His jaw tightens. “So I played along. I smiled for pictures. I went to dances. And I hated every second of it.”
My chest twists. I want to punch a hole in the wall, shake him, and hold him all at once. “Ollie….”
He looks at me, eyes dark and raw. “This—” He gestures between us, hand shaking slightly. “This is the first time I’ve let myself stop pretending. And it scares the shit out of me.”
I don’t think. I just lean in and press my forehead to his. “You don’t have to be scared alone.”
For a long moment, we sit in the quiet, sunlight creeping higher, the world outside already calling him back. Then he nods slowly, like maybe my words gave him something to hold on to, even if just for today.
When he kisses me, it’s not desperate like before. It’s steady. Sure. Like a thank-you without the words.
We break just enough for breath, foreheads still touching, and I feel him shudder under my hand.
“This is the first time I’ve said it out loud,” he murmurs. “To anyone.”
My chest aches. I want to tell him he doesn’t owe me that, that he doesn’t owe anyone anything. But I also know what it means—how hard it is to peel yourself open after years of carrying other people’s versions of you.
So I don’t crowd him with speeches. I don’t ruin the moment with my jealousy or my fear. I just let my thumb trace the inside of his wrist, gentle and quiet, and say, “Then I’ll keep it. Just between us.”
His throat bobs like he’s swallowing something sharp. “I don’t know what happens after this.”
“That’s okay,” I say softly. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
The look he gives me then—half gratitude, half relief, all raw—is one I’ll never forget.
And when he finally gets up to pull on his hoodie, when his bag thumps against his shoulder and he lingers at the door, the room feels too small for everything he left behind.
“Sunday,” he says, voice rough. “If I can get away.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Sunday.”
And then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall.
I collapse back into the sheets, staring at the ceiling like it has answers. My body hums with the echo of what he said, of what it means. For him. For me. For whatever the hell this is.
He trusted me with his truth. And no matter how much it terrifies him, no matter how much it scares me, too, I know one thing for sure: I want more.
The sports bar down the street is packed shoulder to shoulder, every TV screen blazing with March Madness, and it feels like the whole of LA has crammed into this one place.
Jerseys, beer pitchers, pretzels the size of steering wheels.
The smell of grease and sweat and hops clings to the air thick enough to taste.
The volume spikes every time the Panthers touch the ball, but my eyes aren’t on the screens overhead so much as the one player they keep cutting to.
Ollie.
He’s a fucking storm out there. Sharp cuts, thunderous drives, the kind of plays that make the commentators trip over their own excitement.
His teammates lean on him like a band leans on the bass—he’s their anchor and their fire at once, the pulse that holds the whole thing together. And I can’t look away.
When the buzzer finally sounds, when the announcers are practically foaming at the mouth about Panthers’ captain Oliver Marshall leading them into the next round, the bar erupts like we just won the damn lottery.
Beer sloshes out of plastic cups, people slam tables, strangers hug each other like they’ve been best friends for years.
My bandmates are no better. Eli nearly knocks Miles off his stool with a high five. Drew’s grinning since he actually is a fan of the sport. Even Miles cracks something that passes for a smile, and that guy’s usually stoic enough to make statues jealous.
I clap, too, maybe louder than anyone, but my chest is tight with something I don’t let spill onto my face. Because if they win the next one, they’re on to the Sweet Sixteen. And if the schedule gods line up the way I think they might? Ollie will be in the same city as me. Vegas.
But I’m not telling him that. Not yet. Call it superstition, call it nerves—whatever it is, I’m not about to jinx either of us. He doesn’t need that kind of weight. He’s already carrying enough.
Besides, I’ve got my own fire to walk into.
The date finally came through this morning—our Vegas showcase. We’d been given a target window before, “sometime next month,” but then luck punched a hole in the calendar. A band slotted for this week had their singer bail—something medical, something sudden—and just like that, a spot opened up.
Five days.