Chapter 3 #2
Rafe still doesn’t look at me.
I push past the sting.
Cal gestures with his hand. “Tell us about it.”
“It’s basketball-based,” I say, and my voice steadies as I fall into purpose. “We partner with community leagues, mostly supporting kids from immigrant families. A lot of them are dealing with unstable housing, legal uncertainty, parents going through active cases….”
I pause, swallowing the tightness.
“It’s hard to focus on school, hard to focus on sports, when you’re constantly worried about whether your family is going to be ripped apart.”
The room is quieter. Not dead, but listening.
Cal nods slowly. “That’s… heavy.”
“It is,” I say. “But it’s also solvable. Or at least helpable. We connect families with legal resources. We fund education liaisons. We keep kids in gyms, with mentors, with stability. It’s not about saving anyone. It’s about support.”
“Damn,” Eli murmurs.
And then—
Rafe speaks.
It’s not planned. It’s not smoothed over. It just falls out of him, raw and unchecked, like surprise stole his filter.
“Wait,” he says, turning his head toward me for the first time. “You… you did that?”
The question hangs. It’s small, but it slices through the air like a blade because it’s him talking to me.
Not the audience. Not Cal. Not the camera.
To me.
My heart trips over itself.
I look at him. Really look. He’s openly staring at me, shock written across his face so clearly it almost knocks the breath out of me. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly parted, like he can’t reconcile what he’s hearing with the version of me he’s carried for eight years.
I make myself breathe.
Control your voice.
Control your face.
I nod once, slow. “Yeah,” I say carefully. “I did.”
Rafe’s gaze flicks over me like he’s trying to find the lie. He doesn’t, because there isn’t one.
“It mattered,” I add, voice steady even as my chest shakes inside. “It matters. And… it’s something I can do while I still have visibility.”
Something soft and wounded crosses Rafe’s face. Understanding. Not because he knows my secrets, but because he knows why this would matter.
To him.
To his family.
To the parts of his history that I held sacred even while I stayed silent.
Cal blinks, glancing between us. “Okay,” he says, amused and intrigued, “so you two know each other, right?”
My stomach drops. For half a second, I can’t move.
Then Eli saves me. He leans forward, grinning too wide, and drops his voice into something breezy like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Oh yeah,” he says. “College. Ollie was the basketball golden boy, and Rafe was the music menace. We all kind of… orbited the same circles.”
The audience laughs lightly at that.
Eli continues before Cal can ask anything sharper. “We haven’t seen him in a hot minute, though. It’s been, what, years?”
“Quite a few,” Miles says smoothly.
Drew nods. “Too many.”
Rafe doesn’t speak, but he’s still looking at me.
Cal claps his hands once like he’s delighted. “Well, look at that! A little reunion on the couch.”
Ha.
Yeah.
Reunion.
Adrian Vale jumps in, charming as ever, and the conversation shifts toward him—his upcoming movie, his intense training schedule, something about doing his own stunts. I nod at the right places, laugh when the audience laughs, but I’m barely paying attention. How can I when Rafe is right there.
My skin feels too tight, and every second is a battle not to turn fully toward him and forget the cameras exist.
Miles leans in and bumps his shoulder lightly into mine, fingers briefly squeezing the top of my arm before he pulls back.
A silent message: Breathe. Stay with us. You’re okay.
I swallow hard and force myself to look at Cal again.
And then Cal turns back to the band, grin widening. “All right,” he says, excitement in his voice, “we’re not going to waste any more time because Steel Saints are about to play for us.”
The audience cheers.
Cal leans forward. “You’re performing ‘Velocity’ tonight, right?”
A cheer goes up at the title alone.
My stomach turns.
“Velocity.”
Their first hit.
The song.
Cal continues, “One of your biggest songs—an older one too. And I’ve got to ask—Rafe, you wrote that, right?”
Rafe’s jaw clenches. He gives a small nod. “Yeah,” he says, voice careful. “I wrote it.”
Cal grins. “How old were you? Like… twenty?”
Rafe lets out a short huff, almost a laugh. “A little older, but yeah, we were still in college,” he says. “If you can believe that.”
Drew sits forward a little. “He was dramatic even then.”
The audience laughs.
Cal points at Rafe. “A college song that becomes a global hit. That’s insane.”
Rafe shrugs, but it’s rigid, controlled. “It happens.”
Cal’s eyes gleam. “Tell us a little about it.”
The audience oooohs like they’ve been trained.
I go cold. Rafe’s gaze flicks toward Cal, then—briefly, like it’s involuntary—toward me and then away again.
His mouth curves into something that isn’t a smile. “It was about… a feeling.”
Drew snorts. “That’s such a songwriter answer.”
“Shut up,” Rafe mutters.
Cal laughs, delighted. “Come on, man. First loves. That’s what those lyrics are about, right?”
My throat closes.
First loves.
Like it was simple.
Like it was clean.
Like it didn’t rewrite my whole life.
Cal keeps going, playful. “And honestly, first loves are a good starting point. They lead you toward something new and real. They teach you what you want.”
I force my face to stay neutral. Inside, I wince so hard it feels like I’m splintering. New and real implies the old wasn’t. It implies it’s done. Implies—
Rafe’s voice cuts in. “First loves don’t really leave,” he says.
The room stills for half a beat. Even Cal pauses, eyebrows lifting like he didn’t expect that. The audience makes a small sound—something between awe and curiosity.
Rafe’s gaze is still forward, but his hands are clenched now, fingers rigid around nothing. He looks like he surprised himself.
My chest aches.
Cal recovers with a grin that feels slightly more careful. “Well,” he says, voice warm, “on that note—Steel Saints, take it away.”
The band stands, the stagehands move fast, and the couch clears as they head toward the performance area.
I hold my breath as Rafe passes behind the couch, moving with that familiar grace. For a split second, he’s close enough that I catch the faintest trace of him—soap, smoke, something uniquely Rafe—and my whole body goes stiff.
Then they’re positioned, guitars in hand, lights shifting, the audience clapping. And the first chord rings out—sharp, clean, unmistakable.
“Velocity.”
Fuck, my lungs forget how to work, and the world tilts again.