Chapter 19 #2
“That’s me,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking with disbelief.
He smiles. “You’ve got something special, kid. That whole set—raw, dangerous, but tight. You don’t see that balance often. The song in the middle—‘Crimson High’? That one hit hard.”
My pulse jumps. Another of Ollie’s songs. “Thanks. That one means a lot.”
“I could tell,” he says, grin widening. “Felt like blood onstage. Authentic. You don’t fake that.”
He slips a card from his jacket and presses it into my hand. “I want to talk. Not tonight—you’ve earned the right to celebrate—but 11:00 a.m. tomorrow, my office at Horizon. Don’t be late.”
I glance down at the card—heavy stock, gold lettering—and have to blink to make sure it’s real. “We’ll be there.”
“I hope so.” He reaches into his pocket again, this time pulling out sleek black passes with a silver crest stamped across them.
“In the meantime, you boys should blow off steam. Club échelon. Private, off-Strip. Everyone who’s anyone passes through eventually.
They’ll know to let you in. No cameras, no press. ”
He looks at us, a spark of humor in his eyes. “Consider it a welcome to the next level.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the passes glinting in our hands and the room echoing with stunned silence.
Eli’s the first to break it. “Holy. Shit.”
Drew looks at his pass like it might combust. “Was that real? Did that just happen?”
Miles exhales, the ghost of a smile on his face. “It happened.”
Eli whoops loud enough to startle the techs down the hall. “Club échelon! Bro, do you know who goes there? Actors, producers, label execs—hell, probably aliens in disguise.”
Drew grins, shaking his head. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late,” Eli says, already pocketing his pass. “I’m buying everyone a drink when we get there. Including the aliens.”
I laugh, but my phone buzzes in my pocket before I can answer. I know who it is before I even look.
Ollie.
The thought alone sends a current through me. I fumble for my phone, screen lighting up my damp hands.
A simple mind-blown emoji fills my screen.
Me: You were here. Holy shit, Ollie!!!!
The dots appear almost immediately.
Ollie: I wouldn’t want to break tradition now, would I? You were… insane. I don’t even have words.
Me: Didn’t imagine you’d be the one I’d see when the lights hit.
Ollie: Couldn’t miss it. You—God, Rafe. That song.
I pause. My fingers hover over the keyboard. He knows. Of course he does. The words weren’t subtle, not with him watching.
Me: You liked it?
Ollie: Liked it? You lit the place on fire. I’m still trying to come down. But I can’t come around backstage—too many eyes, too many cameras.
I bite back a curse. Of course.
Me: Come celebrate with us.
There’s a pause, long enough for my heart to trip once.
Ollie: Okay.
Me: We’ve got passes for a club. échelon. Off-Strip. Supposed to be discreet.
Ollie: Discreet, huh? That your way of saying I won’t get recognized?
Me: That’s my way of saying I want you there.
The dots blink again.
Ollie: Text me when you’re on your way. I’ll meet you outside.
I slip my phone away, heartbeat doing its own drum solo.
He’s coming.
Miles nudges me. “You good?”
I grin, a little too wide. “Better than good.”
Eli smirks. “Let me guess—your beau was a bad boy and didn’t get on a plane home?”
“Maybe,” I say, but the smile gives me away.
“Of course he didn’t,” Drew says. “Come on, lover boy. Shower up. We’ve got a club to crash.”
By the time we pile into the limo the label sent, the Strip’s still blazing—every light, every billboard, every promise of forever burning gold. The adrenaline hasn’t faded; it’s mutated into something sharper, wilder.
Eli’s half hanging out the window shouting lyrics at strangers. Drew’s scrolling through videos fans already posted, laughing at the captions. Miles sits next to me, quiet but smiling that rare smile that means he’s actually happy.
“Feels real now, huh?” he says.
“Yeah,” I admit. “It does.”
“Tomorrow, you realize,” he adds, “everything is going to change.”
“I know.”
“You ready for that?”
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out, half expecting a reminder from the manager, but the name on the screen makes my pulse kick.
Ollie: I got waved in. Apparently yesterday’s win scored me some cred. SO much for not being recognised.
For a second, I just stare at the message, rereading it until it sinks in—while choosing to ignore the fact he’s been recognised so easily.
He’s already inside.
I can picture him—hood up, shoulders tucked, trying to blend into a room built for people who never have to try.
That’s him all over. He’s magnetic without meaning to be.
He doesn’t chase attention, doesn’t bask in it the way I do under the lights.
Off the court, he’d rather disappear than stand out.
I text back before I can think better of it.
Me: Good. Almost there. I’ll find you.
I pocket my phone, trying to act casual while adrenaline starts thudding again, louder than the music still ringing in my ears.
Club échelon sits in a nondescript building with smoked-glass windows and no sign—just a soft light spilling from the doorway and a line that snakes down the block. The bouncer clocks our passes and waves us past without a word.
Inside, the air hums with low synths and chatter. Velvet shadows. Amber light. It’s the kind of place that looks like money and privacy had a baby.
And somewhere in the middle of it—hidden in plain sight—is Ollie.
A chandelier glows above a bar lined with people who look too famous to be real—and yet no one’s holding a phone. There are no flashes, no cameras. Just the unspoken rule of the place: What happens here, stays untweeted.
“Jesus,” Eli breathes. “This is insane.”
“Behave,” Miles warns.
“I’m always behaved,” Eli says, and immediately proves himself wrong by climbing onto a barstool and ordering shots for anyone within earshot.
Drew chuckles. “He’s gonna end up in someone’s memoir.”
“Probably mine,” I mutter.
We drift toward the back, still laughing, still high on everything—the show, the attention, the future suddenly cracking open in front of us.
A couple of women wave from a corner booth; Eli’s already halfway there.
Drew and Miles start talking to a guy from another band we met backstage.
I take a second to breathe, leaning against the wall, drink in hand.
And then I see him.
Ollie.
He’s not dressed for this place—hoodie, jeans, Nike’s—but he doesn’t need to be. The way he stands, shoulders loose but alert, head tipped slightly as he scans the crowd, he draws the light without even trying. The pulse in my throat kicks hard.
He catches my eye across the room. For a heartbeat, the noise drops out. Then his mouth curves—not a grin, not quite shy either, just that small, deliberate smile that says yeah, I came for you.
I’m moving before I even realize it, weaving through the crowd until I’m standing in front of him. Up close, he smells like clean soap and something faintly sharp, like adrenaline that never quite left his skin.
“You’re really here,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “They seriously just waved you in?”
He shrugs, eyes glinting. “Apparently I’ve got tournament cred now. Our win was all over ESPN.” He pauses, studying me. “Guess that means we’re both having a big night.”
“You think?” I laugh, shaking my head. “You were supposed to fly out.”
“I was,” he admits, sliding his hands into his pockets. “The rest of the team’s already gone.”
My brows lift. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
He glances away, half guilty, half proud. “I might’ve told Coach my parents were in town and wanted to grab dinner before I flew out.”
I blink. “You lied to your coach?”
“Technically,” he says, mouth twitching, “I just didn’t specify which dinner or which parent. I’m sure the place I grabbed a burger from had someone’s parent there.”
I stare at him, fighting a grin. “You really risked getting benched for a night in Vegas?”
“Not a night in Vegas. A night with you,” he says, and fuck if my heart doesn’t melt. Then, softer, he adds, “My dad’s company donates a lot to the athletic department. Coach wasn’t going to call to verify.”
That lands heavier than I expect. “So you used the family name?”
“Guess so,” he says, voice lowering. “First time it’s ever done me any good.”
The confession hangs between us, rawer than either of us meant it to be. I study him—the tightness in his jaw, the way he’s pretending not to feel the weight of what he just said. It’s not bragging; it’s resignation.
“You know,” I say, taking a half step closer, “anytime you want to break the rules to see me, I’ll always be your alibi.”
His eyes lift, catching mine. “Is that so?”
“Every damn time.”
He laughs under his breath, the sound rough and unguarded. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time.”
He reaches out and brushes his fingers against my arm. “But seriously, Rafe, you were unreal onstage.” His eyes flick down to mine, lingering. “You always play incredibly, but this—this was something else.”
“Yeah?” My chest feels too tight. “You think so?”
“I know so.” He tilts his head. “You were made for that stage.”
“Oh, I definitely was.” I can’t stop smiling. “How about you? How does it feel to be the guy every sports commentator is drooling over right now?”
He makes a face, half amusement, half exhaustion. “Loud. Exhausting. I haven’t paid attention to my phone, except for anything involving your name, since the buzzer. Lawrence, the athletic department’s PR guy, said my DMs look like a stock ticker.”
“Tell him to screen them for you,” I say, and it comes out lighter than I mean it to.
He huffs a small laugh. “He’d delete all the ones from girls and start answering the ones from League recruiters pretending to be my agent.”
“Smart man,” I say. “So, you staying till morning?”
“Yeah. My flight’s tomorrow, 10:20 a.m.” He glances down, thumb brushing the condensation ring on his glass. “Next game’s in two days.”