Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The desert light has a way of being cruel—too honest, too bright—but somehow it feels softer this morning. Maybe because I barely slept, or maybe because I know who’s waiting for me.
The Lucky Bean Diner is two miles off the Strip, tucked between a pawnshop and a tattoo parlor. Inside smells like fried food and caffeine. Its booths are vinyl patched with duct tape, and the waitresses look like they’ve been here since Elvis left town.
And Ollie, sitting in the far corner.
He’s got his hood up, baseball cap low, the very picture of please don’t notice I’m six-four and built like a superhero.
But I notice. Of course I do. The slouch that’s too practiced, the tap of one knee under the table.
He’s been running on adrenaline since last night’s game.
I can see it in the way he keeps flexing his hands like they still remember the ball.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him.
He looks up, the faintest smile cracking through the fatigue. “You made it.”
“Didn’t want you to think I dreamed you up.”
“Would’ve been a weird dream,” he says. “The breakfast version of you probably orders something fancy like avocado toast.”
“I’m a pancakes-and-bad-decisions kind of guy.”
That earns a quiet laugh. He’s still smiling when the waitress drops off two menus and asks for drink orders. Two coffees, easy. Ollie keeps the hood up until she leaves, then pushes it back, exhaling like he can breathe for the first time since the final buzzer.
“Did you sleep at all?” I ask.
“Couple of hours. Team’s still wired. Coach tried to get us to lights-out at midnight, but half the guys were watching replays.”
“Your game’s all over the internet. You were a machine.”
He makes a face. “I hate that word.”
“Fine. A poet, then.”
He arches a brow. “A poet who dunks?”
“Exactly. You make it look like music.”
That gets him, and in return, he graces me a small shake of his head and a half-embarrassed grin that tugs at his mouth. “You say that because you’re a musician.”
“I say that because it’s true.”
The coffees arrive. We wrap our hands around the mugs. Outside, sunlight cuts through the blinds in narrow bars, striping his face gold. He looks wrecked, alive, beautiful.
“Coach said we’re flying out in a few hours,” he says. “Sweet Sixteen, man.”
“Big time.”
“Bigger pressure.” He lifts his cup, blows on it. “How about you? You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The I’m sitting on something huge and pretending it’s casual look.”
I grin, but before I can answer, he tilts his head slightly, studying me in that quiet, unnerving way he does when he’s thinking too hard. “Why are you here, Rafe?”
That catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean here.” He gestures vaguely, a small circle in the air. “Vegas. The game. You didn’t tell me you were coming. I look up in the middle of the biggest game of my life, and there you are, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”
He exhales and leans back. His voice drops. “It threw me. In the best way. I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before.”
Something in my chest stutters. “Done what?”
“Showed up,” he says simply. “Not because they had to—because they wanted to.” His mouth twists in a half smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“My parents never make it to home games, let alone away games. Not even in high school. My friends text. My teammates have their own people in the stands. But you…” He stops, and there’s a flicker of disbelief in his tone.
“You got on a plane, you sat in that arena, and you watched me. I saw you. I couldn’t believe it. ”
The words hit harder than I expect. I shift my mug aside because my hands have gone still.
“Ollie—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he cuts in, smiling almost shyly now.
“It just… it meant more than I can explain. When the game got tight, when I thought I was losing my edge, I looked up again and saw you. And it felt like…” He pauses, searching for words.
“Like I wasn’t alone out there. That’s new for me. ”
My throat goes tight. “You’re gonna wreck me before my caffeine kicks in.”
He huffs a laugh. “Guess we’re even, then.”
I reach across the table, thumb brushing the side of his wrist where his pulse flickers quick. “You’re not alone, okay? Not anymore.”
He looks down at where our hands touch, then back at me, eyes soft and bright. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.”
I leave my hand there for another beat, until the tension in him uncoils a little, until he looks more like the guy who kissed me in a dark hallway and less like the one always fighting to breathe.
Then, finally, he exhales and says, “So, you gonna tell me what that look was about now?”
“Which one?”
“The I’ve-got-a-secret one.”
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “We’re playing tonight. Mirage Theater.”
The cup stops halfway to his lips. “Holy shit. You didn’t tell me you got a date.”
I shrug. “I wanted to keep it a surprise. I knew it meant we’d be here at the same time.”
For a moment, he just stares, eyes wide. Then he laughs—a full-bodied sound that cuts straight through the diner’s hum. “Rafe, that’s insane.” He lowers his voice. “You’re—holy shit—you’re doing it.”
“Trying to. Anthony says a few reps are coming. Labels, maybe. Or booking agents.” I stir my coffee, staring at the swirl. “If it goes right, it could mean touring. Studio time. Maybe more.”
“And if it goes really right?” he asks quietly.
I glance up and meet his eyes. “If it goes really right, I might not finish off the year.”
He leans back, blinking. “You’d drop out? You’re, what, two months from graduating?”
“Three,” I correct. “And I would in a heartbeat.”
The words taste strange, like saying them makes them real. “College was never the goal. Music was. I went to keep the peace—my parents wanted me to have a backup plan—but I’m not built for plan B.”
Ollie studies me, thoughtful. “They’d be okay with that?”
“Yeah. I told them about tonight. Papá said, ‘Hazlo con todo tu corazón’—do it with your whole heart. They get it. They know this is the thing that makes me feel alive.”
He goes quiet for a beat. “You’re lucky.”
“I know.”
His gaze drops to his cup. “My dad would lose his mind if I said I was quitting anything. He thinks hard work only counts if you’re in an office with your name on the door.”
“He still on the internship kick?”
“Yeah. Keeps sending me contact lists, like I’m one email away from salvation. He means well—he always does—but it’s like he can’t picture me happy unless it looks like him.”
“Maybe he’s scared,” I say softly. “Of what he doesn’t understand.”
He looks up again, and there’s no armor between us. “You ever get tired of being the one who understands everything?”
“Constantly.” I reach across the table and cover his hand again. He doesn’t pull away. Our fingers fit like they were waiting.
“Real talk,” I say. “You’re gonna play ball however long it lasts. Me, I’m gonna play music till I can’t hear anymore. Everything else—classes, pressure, parents—that’s noise. And for once, I want the noise to stop.”
He nods slowly. “You sound like you’ve already decided.”
“I have.”
“You’re not scared?”
“I’m terrified,” I admit. “But it’s the right kind of scared.”
He smiles faintly. “The kind that means you’re alive.”
“Exactly.”
The waitress drops off our food—pancakes drowning in syrup for me, a mountain of eggs and toast for him. The smell makes my stomach growl. Ollie notices and laughs again, and just like that, the heaviness lifts.
“You always order like a kid who’s just discovered sugar exists.”
“Hey, don’t shame my joy.” I arch my brow at him.
“I’m not. I’m jealous. My nutritionist would combust if she saw that plate.”
“Then she’s not invited.”
“Thank God.” He forks a bite of eggs. “So, what happens if you get an offer tonight? Like, real offer. Contract, money, tour bus, the works?”
“Then I sign,” I say simply, “and figure the rest out later.”
He watches me over his coffee, eyes unreadable. “So this is really happening.”
“I fucking hope so.” I cut into a pancake, syrup dripping. “I’ve been working toward this since I was fifteen. Garage bands, shitty gigs, endless practice. Then when I met the guys and we got our shit together, I just knew we had what it takes. If someone opens a door, I’m not hesitating.”
He nods slowly, like he’s memorizing every word. “Then I hope they see what I see.”
“What’s that?”
“The real thing.”
I grin. “You gonna make me blush in public?”
“Just returning the favor,” he says, mouth quirking.
We fall into an easy rhythm after that—talking about setlists, preshow rituals, the weird Vegas energy that makes everyone feel like they’re one win away from destiny.
He tells me about the team’s curfew, the media crush, how his roommate snores loud enough to shake walls.
I tell him about Drew accidentally breaking a guitar string mid–sound check and swearing in front of the tech crew like a man possessed.
It’s ordinary and electric all at once.
When the plates are cleared, he reaches for the check before I can move.
“Ollie—”
“Don’t even start. You covered breakfast last time.”
“Barely. You had toast.”
“And emotional baggage,” he says, grinning. “That counts as a side.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Fine, Captain. Your win.”
He pays, and we step outside into sunlight sharp enough to make my eyes water. The air smells like dust and heat. A dry wind pushes at the street banners until they flap and snap like applause.
We walk without talking for a few blocks, just shoulders brushing, hands occasionally bumping until finally his fingers hook around mine. It’s quick, almost hidden, but it feels like a shout.
“Can’t believe I’m holding hands in Vegas,” he murmurs.
“Scandalous.”
He laughs quietly. “Feels… good.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It does.”