Chapter 3
OLLIE
The door swings shut behind them like a final decision.
One second Rafe is in the green room—real, breathing, staring at me like I’m a ghost—and the next he’s gone, pulled away by schedules and handlers and the merciless machinery of television.
I stand here, half a step into the room, my whole body locked in place like someone hit pause on my life.
What.
The.
Fuck.
My brain keeps replaying it in fragments: the door opening, talking to the assistant, and then Eli’s voice, booming across the room like a grenade.
“Holy fucking shit, Ollie Marshall.”
And then—
“Rafe.”
My voice. His name. Out loud.
I swallow, but it doesn’t help. My throat is too dry, my pulse too loud. My heart feels like it’s slamming itself against my ribs in panicked Morse code.
Has there been a gas leak? Did I hit my head? Is this some elaborate hallucination brought on by too many late nights and not enough sleep and the cosmic cruelty of missing someone so badly it warps reality?
Because that’s what this feels like. The Twilight Zone. The part where the protagonist realizes the universe has been watching his misery and finally decided to do something about it—either as a gift or a punishment.
I’m still staring at the door when a voice slides into my awareness.
“…Oliver?”
I blink. Once. Twice. Like my eyes have to reboot.
Adrian Vale is standing a few feet away, angled toward me with that easy actor smile that looks like it was designed in a lab to disarm people. His expression is friendly, but there’s curiosity in it, too, the kind that says are you okay, man? without asking it directly.
“You all right?” he asks quietly, like we’re conspirators in a room full of staff.
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Jesus Christ, get it together.
This isn’t a locker room. This isn’t a game where I can shove my shock down into muscle memory and do my job. This is television. This is cameras. This is—
Rafe.
A rush of nausea hits me so suddenly, I have to shift my weight and ground myself. Feet on floor. Shoulders back. Breath in through nose, out through mouth.
Autopilot engages, the same one that’s gotten me through press conferences with a smile stapled to my face while my insides were on fire. “I’m good,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than it has any right to. “Sorry. Long… week.”
Adrian’s eyes soften. “Yeah? You guys just wrapped preseason stuff, right?”
“Offseason,” I correct automatically, then realize I’m being pedantic and add, “But yeah. It’s been busy.”
He grins like he likes that answer. “You looking forward to the next season?”
The question is so normal it almost knocks me over.
Next season.
Basketball.
Stats. Schedules. Something I know how to control.
My mind is still stuck on the image of Rafe being dragged away down a hallway like we’re characters in a bad dream, but I force my mouth to work anyway. “Yeah,” I say. “Always. I’m… excited.”
Adrian nods, taking a sip of his coffee. “You guys are a machine. I caught a couple of games last season. You’re next level.”
A laugh bubbles out of me—small, polite, reflexive. “Thank you,” I manage. “We try.”
He smiles wider. “That’s the most athlete answer I’ve ever heard.”
I almost believe I’m okay for half a second. Then my brain flashes back to Rafe’s face when he saw me. The way his eyes widened, like he couldn’t decide whether to hope or break. And the world tilts again.
What are the odds that it would be the exact same show Steel Saints were booked for?
I wasn’t even booked to appear on the show until last week—when a spot came open, which was ideal since the charity program are chasing PR opportunities.
Maybe it’s the universe throwing my decisions back in my face.
A woman with a headset appears—Naomi, I think, though my memory is a scrambled mess.
“Okay, Adrian, Ollie—perfect timing,” she chirps. “We’re ready for you. We’ll take you to stage right.”
“Let’s do it,” Adrian says easily.
My legs move because they have to. Because someone is guiding me forward and momentum is easier than standing still.
I follow Adrian out of the green room, down the hallway that smells like hairspray and warm lights, and keep my thoughts away from where the band went.
I don’t let myself picture Rafe sitting somewhere, searching for the exit, heart in his throat, fighting to hold himself together the same way I am.
We reach the stage entrance.
The muffled sound of the audience is there, a low excited hum that seeps through the walls. There’s a monitor showing the set—Cal Hart in his stuffed chair, suit sharp, smile easy, crowd laughing at something he just said.
It’s bright and cheerful. It’s so violently normal, I want to laugh.
A stagehand touches my elbow and clips a mic pack onto my waistband. Another adjusts my collar. A third person speaks into a headset, calling out cues like we’re pieces on a board.
Adrian leans closer. “You sure you’re okay?”
I force a smile. “Yeah.”
He looks like he doesn’t buy it, but the music swells and Naomi gestures with both hands.
“Ready!” she whispers. “In three… two…”
We walk out. The lights hit me like a wall.
The audience claps, loud and immediate, a wave of sound that makes my skin prickle. The set is warm-toned and cozy—big couch, armchair, fake skyline backdrop, the whole “like you’re hanging out in someone’s living room” vibe.
Except living rooms don’t have studio lights and an audience of strangers applauding your existence.
Cal stands, grinning, and the crowd cheers harder. “And tonight,” he’s saying, “we have a lineup that is honestly ridiculous. International superstar band Steel Saints are here, fresh off their best tour yet—”
The applause spikes again.
My stomach flips.
Don’t look.
Don’t.
Cal continues, “And we are also joined by the one and only Adrian Vale—”
Adrian waves like a pro, and the audience screams.
“And,” Cal says, pausing for effect, “we’ve got a man who is basically a walking highlight reel—captain of the Minnesota Eagles, one of the best in the League, Oliver Marshall!”
The clapping hits again, and I do what I’ve done a thousand times. I smile. I lift a hand, nod like I’m grateful but not overwhelmed. Like my world didn’t just detonate backstage.
Cal crosses toward us and shakes Adrian’s hand first, then mine. His grip is firm, his eyes friendly. “Ollie, good to see you, man.”
“Good to see you,” I say, and I hope my voice doesn’t crack.
He gestures toward the couch. “Come on over.”
I turn toward it, and my body tries to stop.
Steel Saints are already seated. All four of them. They take up the big couch like they belong there—Drew lounging back with the confidence of a man who knows the cameras love him, Miles sitting upright and composed, Eli looking like he’s trying to keep his mouth shut and failing.
And at the far end—
Rafe.
He’s farther away than he has any right to be. Like the couch is an ocean and I’m stranded on the wrong shore.
He looks… unreal. Same gorgeous face that haunts my nights. Same mouth I used to kiss until I forgot my own name. Same dark eyes that used to soften when they found mine.
Now those eyes don’t find mine at all. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tense, hands clasped loosely, ring catching the light on his right hand like a private joke that isn’t funny.
It hurts. More than it should.
It’s a stupid distance, a few feet at most, but it feels like eight years compressed into space. Like the universe is reminding me: You don’t get to have him. Not easily. Not like you want.
All I want to do is stare. To memorize him and talk to him. To somehow rewind time.
But Cal is guiding me, and the audience is watching, and I sit in the empty spot beside Miles because that’s where the producers have decided I belong. Miles turns his head and looks at me like I’m something fascinating and fragile all at once.
His eyes are kind, which makes it worse. “Hey,” he murmurs, low enough that the audience won’t hear it.
“Hey,” I manage.
And then the show starts.
Cal settles into his chair, crosses one leg over the other, and beams at the camera. “All right—welcome back to The Late Lounge. We’ve got an incredible group here tonight…”
The audience laughs at his opening joke, and I laugh, too, because my body knows how to do this even while my head is screaming.
Steel Saints talk first. Tour wrap. Highlights. Funny stories.
Drew is loud and charming, Miles is dry and smooth, Eli is earnest with sharp humor.
I keep my eyes on Cal and my smile in place. I nod when I’m supposed to. I even manage to throw in a couple of polite laughs at the right moments.
But every time Rafe speaks, my heart constricts.
His voice is the same. A little deeper, maybe. A little more controlled. But it’s him. And it gives me an excuse to look. So I do. Just a glance.
Rafe doesn’t look back. He keeps his gaze fixed somewhere past Cal, past the audience, like if he looks at me he’ll break.
Or worse—he’ll remember.
The laughter rolls around us like weather. Cal makes a joke. Drew cracks up. Miles smirks. Eli grins.
And me? I sit here, smiling like I’m fine while my heart tries to climb out of my ribs and crawl across the couch to the man who used to be mine.
“And Oliver,” Cal says, turning his attention toward me at last, “you’ve been busy this offseason—and not just on the court.”
My pulse stutters. I nod, forcing my posture into something relaxed. “Yeah.”
Cal smiles, warm and genuinely interested. “I heard you’ve been putting a lot of energy into a charity initiative—something close to your heart.”
Thank God. This—this I can do. This is solid ground. Something I chose. Something I can talk about without my voice catching on a name I’m not allowed to say.
“Yeah,” I say, and it’s easier this time. “It’s a program I invested in a couple of years ago, but this offseason, I’m trying to really raise the profile.”
Miles shifts beside me, attentive. Drew’s gaze sharpens like he’s clocking a storyline. Eli looks openly curious.