Chapter 2 #3
Coach wanted culture. What he got is a rookie who learned exactly how alone he can be in a room full of people.
The hotel hallway is too quiet. That’s the first thing I notice. The second thing is the light under my door.
I stop, key card halfway out of my pocket. My pulse spikes, because I’m not expecting anyone. Because I haven’t seen Rafe in ten days, and the last message I got from him said he wasn’t flying back until tomorrow.
I swipe in, and the door clicks open. And there, just inside the entryway, like the answer to a prayer I didn’t let myself say out loud, is a pair of worn black Converse, tossed carelessly on the carpet.
My chest caves in with relief so sharp it almost hurts.
I shut the door quietly behind me and just stand there for a second, staring at the shoes like they might disappear if I blink. Then I move, fast and silent, shedding my jacket, toeing off my own shoes, walking deeper into the room like I’m stepping into a different life.
The bedside lamp is on low. The curtains are half drawn.
The bed is a mess of sheets and a familiar body, curled on his side like he fell into sleep mid-thought.
Rafe. His hair’s a wreck, his tattooed forearm flung across the pillow, and his mouth’s parted slightly. He’s asleep, and holy shit, he’s here.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way my whole system calms down at the sight of him—like my bones recognize home before my brain does.
I strip quietly. Shirt, jeans, socks. The leather cord comes over my head, and for a second, the ring rests in my palm. I stare at it, slide it off, and place it on my finger. Rightness settles in my chest. One day it can stay here always, but for now, these stolen private moments will have to do.
I crawl into bed behind him. The mattress dips, and Rafe stirs, making a soft sound that isn’t a word. I press a kiss to the back of his neck, right where his skin is warmest.
His hand reaches back blindly, finding my wrist like it knows the path. “Jesus,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “You’re real.”
“I’m real,” I whisper.
He rolls halfway, eyes barely opening. His gaze lands on me and goes soft in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
“You weren’t due back yet,” I murmur.
He blinks slowly. “Surprise.”
I huff a laugh that turns into something almost broken. I press my forehead to his. “Ten days,” I say, like it’s an accusation.
His mouth curves, lazy and fond. “I know.”
I kiss him. It’s not frantic. Not desperate. It’s sweet and slow. The kind of kiss you give someone you’ve missed so much it’s become part of your blood.
Rafe kisses back with that same sleepy devotion, hands sliding over my shoulders, my back, pulling me closer like his body knows what it needs even if his brain is still catching up.
When we break apart, he exhales against my mouth and mumbles, completely serious, “I promise to suck you off in the morning when I’m awake. ”
Quiet laughter escapes me, my heart filling with the love I have for this man.
Rafe’s eyes slit open just enough to see my expression. “What?” he says, affronted. “That’s romance.”
“It is,” I say, still chuckling. “It’s poetry.”
“Damn right it is.” He nuzzles closer, voice dropping. “You win?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I played.”
His face sharpens even through the sleep. “You played played?”
“Yeah.”
Rafe’s hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing gently. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, and the words hit like they always do—right between my ribs. “I wanted to be there.”
“I know,” I say. “I know you did.”
He sighs, eyes closing again, but his fingers keep moving—small, grounding touches, like he’s making sure I’m really here. “You smell like club,” he murmurs, nose wrinkling.
“I had to go,” I admit.
“Hmm.” He makes a sound like he’s filing that away for later. “Did you get hit on?”
My body goes still again.
Rafe’s eyes open a fraction. Not jealous. Not angry. Just… curious. Careful.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
His thumb pauses.
I touch his face. “I didn’t—” I start, then stop, because I hate that I feel like I have to explain.
Rafe seems to read it anyway. He exhales and kisses my chin. “I know,” he murmurs. “I trust you. I hate that you have to live in that.”
I close my eyes. The ring on my finger is heavier for a beat.
His voice is softer now, more awake. “Band stuff went… well,” he says, like he’s trying to give me something bright. “We met with someone. Not a full tour yet—don’t freak out.” His mouth twitches. “But it’s moving.”
My heart lifts immediately. “Rafe—”
“I know,” he says, cutting me off gently. “It’s wild. And scary. And I wish I could put you in my pocket and take you to every meeting so I could breathe.”
My throat constricts. “I wish I could do the same.”
He kisses me again, quick and warm. “We’re getting there,” he whispers. “One step. One season. One song.”
I press my face into his shoulder, breathing him in like oxygen.
Outside the window, LA is still awake. Sirens distant. Traffic hums. A city that never stops performing. But in here, in this room, in this bed, I finally feel like I can stop.
Rafe shifts, tugging me closer until my chest is flush to his back. His hand finds mine, fingers brushing the ring like he knows exactly where it is. “Still there,” he murmurs, half asleep again.
“Always,” I whisper.
He hums, satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Now sleep. You’ve got training camp soon, Captain.”
The nickname is older than the League, older than the draft, older than the cameras. It’s us.
I grin into his skin, exhaustion crashing down now that I’m safe enough to let it. “Morning”—I’m already smiling—“you better remember your promise.”
Rafe’s laugh is a sleepy, wicked thing. “Oh,” he says, voice fading as he drifts, “I’ll remember.”
And for the first time all night—maybe all week—my body unclenches completely. Because I’m not alone, my husband is here, and the Converse on the floor mean home found me, even in a hotel room the team paid for.
I close my eyes and let myself rest.