Chapter 22 #2
“Defer,” Simpson corrects, though not unkindly. “Pause. Shift to online if your school allows it. You’ll need to talk with your advisors.” His gaze flicks to me. “And any financial aid tied to enrollment will need to be addressed.”
My stomach clenches. “Our rent… part of it’s subsidized through scholarships. If we drop, we lose that.” Why the hell haven’t I even considered that part?
“Then your agent will negotiate an advance large enough to cover your rent,” Simpson says. “Or Horizon can connect you with short-term creative housing we contract with for artists. It’s not fancy, but it’s close to the studios.”
Drew whistles. “Studios. As in the real thing?”
“Sunset and La Cienega,” Simpson says simply, like that’s normal.
This is real.
He flips to another section and continues, “As for the timeline, we want to record the EP quickly. Strike while the buzz exists. And the buzz does exist—your showcase numbers on socials are already climbing. You’ll need to rehearse, tighten your live show, prepare for media coaching. It’s a lot. But you’re ready.”
My throat goes tight. I can’t help it.
He thinks we’re ready.
Simpson closes the folder with deliberate care. “The next step is simple: Find an agent. Immediately. You’ll need someone in your corner before we move any further than this.”
Miles is already reaching for his phone.
Simpson chuckles. “Now that’s the urgency I like to see.”
Drew leans back in his chair, eyes huge. “We’re seriously doing this.”
“We are,” Simpson says, standing. “And with the right team behind you, Horizon thinks you can go further than just an EP. But one step at a time. Call me when you’ve secured representation. I’ll hold the timeline for seventy-two hours.”
He shakes each of our hands one by one. His grip is firm. His smile doesn’t have that LA shine I used to hate. It feels real.
When it’s my turn, he squeezes my hand harder, lowering his voice as he says, “You’ve got something, Rafe. Something I don’t see often.”
My chest goes hot. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Do the work.” He nods. We’ll speak soon. I’ve got some calls to make.”
And then he leaves the meeting room.
The door clicks behind him, and there’s silence for a solid three seconds.
Then the room blows up.
“Holy shit!” Eli yells, almost knocking his chair over. “Three weeks? Three fucking weeks?”
“We need an agent,” Miles says, already scrolling. “I’m texting Anthony.”
“Texting?” Drew says. “Call him. Beg him. Offer him—hell, offer him Eli.”
“Hey!” Eli protests. “I’m worth more than one agent!”
I’m sitting very still. Too still. My hands are shaking in my lap, the adrenaline crashing against the exhaustion of last night and the even bigger realization—
I need to tell Ollie. Except he’s in the air and I’m here, vibrating out of my skin.
“Rafe,” Miles says suddenly, sharp. “What’s wrong?”
“I—” My voice cracks. I swallow. “Nothing. Everything. Fuck, I just need—give me a second.”
They quiet, for once. Drew bumps his shoulder into mine, gentle. “Breathe, dude.”
I do. In. Out. My lungs eventually catch up.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. This is happening.”
Eli smirks. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“I am.”
“It’s convincing me,” Drew says, standing and moving to one of the oversized couches in the meeting room. “Also, we need to celebrate. Shotgun shit. Stupid decisions. Drinks. Something.”
“Speaking of stupid decisions,” Eli says slowly, slyly, and joining Drew on the couch, “can we talk about the fact that our lead singer got”—he lowers his voice dramatically—“married.”
Miles doesn’t even look up from his phone. “To an actual person,” he says. “Not a metaphor. Not a temporary ring. An actual man.”
Drew pinches the bridge of his nose. “At a wedding chapel. At 1:00 a.m. With us as witnesses.”
Eli raises his hand. “And legally binding paperwork.”
My face burns. “Okay, okay, shut the hell up—”
“We’re not judging,” Eli says sweetly. “We’re just saying. That was the gayest bachelor party none of us asked for.”
“Eli,” Miles says, still scrolling, “shut up. But also… yes.”
I groan into my hands. “None of this leaves this room. I mean it. Not to parents. Not to strangers. Not to anyone in management. Not until Ollie and I figure out… everything.”
Three heads nod, almost synchronized.
“Sworn,” Drew says.
“My lips are sealed,” Eli says, crossing his heart dramatically.
Miles looks up. “It stays with us. Promise.”
Something in my rib cage eases.
Miles’s phone suddenly buzzes, and he sits up straighter. “Anthony’s calling back.”
We all freeze as he hits the speaker. “Anthony?”
“Tell me you didn’t sign anything without representation,” Anthony says immediately, dry as dust.
“No,” Miles says. “We need an agent. Like… yesterday.”
“Well, lucky you,” Anthony says. “I’ve got a friend at Helix Representation. Boutique firm. Smart as hell, brutal in negotiations. I’ll connect you. Expect a call within the hour.”
My breath punches out. “Anthony,” I say, leaning forward, “thank you.”
“You don’t thank me yet,” he says. “Thank me when your deal doesn’t screw you. Congratulations, boys. Seriously.”
The call ends, and it’s silence again.
Eli shouts into a pillow. Miles exhales so long it sounds painful. Drew hugs me hard enough to bruise, saying, “LA, man.”
“LA,” I echo.
Where Ollie will still be.
Where everything could break open or burn down.
I let myself imagine it—Ollie walking off a practice court, sweat in his hair, calling me; me ducking out of the studio to meet him; both of us playing it cool for the public, both of us knowing what we are underneath.
My husband.
Jesus.
“Rafe,” Miles says softly. “You look like somebody hit you with good news and bad news at the same time.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”
Eli claps his hands. “Lunch. Right now. Before Rafe launches into a poetic crisis.”
“I’m already in one,” I mutter.
“Exactly,” he says. “Burgers fix things.”
We stand. My legs feel weird. Light. Like the ground is moving under me. Drew slings an arm around my neck. Miles pockets the paperwork. Eli grabs my jacket and tosses it to me.
“Future rock stars,” he announces, shoving open the exit door like he’s unveiling a new world. “Let’s go eat like we can afford Quarter Pounders.”
We step out into the Vegas day—bright, crude, unforgiving, and full of possibility.
My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Ollie.
Ollie: Land soon. Call you after? Want to hear everything.
My heart pulls tight.
Yeah. Everything’s about to change.
And I can’t fucking wait.
END OF CHORDS & COURTS BOOK 1, brEAKING STRINGS.
READ AHEAD FOR CHAPTER ONE, CHORDS & COURTS BOOK 2, SHATTERED HOOPS, & ORDER TODAY!