Chapter 4 #2
Outside, the night air is cool and quiet. We walk side by side down the sidewalk, close but careful, our shoulders almost touching. A laugh bubbles up in me, sudden and ridiculous.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. Then, because he knows better, I add, “I just… this feels nice.”
He nods, expression soft. “Yeah. It does.”
Back at my hotel, the door clicks shut behind us and the world recedes like it always does. Shoes get kicked off. Jackets get draped over the back of a chair. The small rituals of being together take over without either of us needing to name them.
After our low-key dinner, we’re stretched out on the couch, the hotel suite dim except for a lamp in the corner.
I’ve kicked my shoes off and propped my feet on the small coffee table.
Rafe is curled against me, head resting in my lap like he’s finally run out of momentum.
His curls are loose and wild, brushing my thigh every time he shifts.
There are dark circles under his eyes that tell me he’s been living on adrenaline and caffeine again, pushing himself harder than he admits.
I card my fingers through his hair slowly, the way I do when I want him to relax without making a big deal of it. He hums, eyes closing, and for a few minutes, everything else goes quiet.
This—this ease, this laughter, this unremarkable happiness—is the part I’m trying to protect. Even if I don’t know how long I can.
“You’re quiet,” I say.
“Mmm,” he murmurs. “Just thinking.”
“That usually means you’re about to drop something on me.”
He cracks one eye open, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “You make it sound so dramatic.”
“It’s you,” I say. “It usually is.”
He sighs, then shifts so he’s lying a little flatter, still anchored to me but alert now. His fingers curl around my wrist, grounding himself. “We got the call today,” he says.
My heart stutters. “What kind of call?”
“The kind we’ve been waiting on,” he answers, voice careful, measured. “The tour’s happening.”
For a second, the words don’t land. Then they do, all at once.
“Rafe.” My hand stills in his hair. “That’s—”
“I know,” he cuts in softly, watching my face. “It’s good. It’s really good.”
Pride hits me hard and immediate, blooming warm in my chest. “That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
His smile deepens, genuine and a little vulnerable. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say without hesitation. “You’ve earned this. You all have.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day. “Real venues,” he adds. “Not just clubs. Multiple cities. Actual routing. Not ‘drive all night and hope for the best’ energy.”
I laugh quietly. “Look at you. Professional.”
“Terrifying, right?” he says, only half joking.
I nod. “Yeah. A little.”
The word tour starts expanding in my head, stretching into dates and distances and empty spaces between. I don’t want to think about that part yet, but it’s already there, pressing at the edges.
“When?” I ask.
“Early next year,” he says. “Spring, most likely.”
Soon enough to feel real. Far enough away to pretend it’s manageable.
I keep my voice steady. “That’s… not that far off.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
We sit with it for a moment. The room is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside. Rafe’s thumb traces idle circles against my wrist, like he’s anchoring himself to something solid.
“I wanted to tell you when we were alone,” he says. “Didn’t want this to be a public thing.”
“I’m glad,” I admit. “I like being able to touch you when you say things like that.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah. Me too.”
I brush my thumb along his jaw, grounding myself the same way. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, even as my brain starts doing math I don’t want to acknowledge. “Schedules. Flights. All of it.”
He nods, but there’s something thoughtful in his eyes now. “We always do.”
The familiar words land heavier than they should. I look down at him, really look—at the lines fatigue has etched into his face, at the quiet excitement he’s trying not to let turn into fear. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. Then, more honestly, he adds, “I think so.”
I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, lingering. “I really am proud of you,” I repeat. “I don’t want you to ever doubt that.”
He closes his eyes again, a soft sound leaving him. “I don’t.”
But as he settles back into me, I can feel the shape of what’s coming already forming between us. The distance. The planning. The way love keeps having to make room for ambition.
For now, though, he’s here. And I hold him like that’s enough.
The event isn’t big, but it’s important. That distinction matters more now than it ever did in college. Summer League was loud and obvious, all sharp edges and desperate energy. Preseason is quieter. It’s more polished and less forgiving.
This is where they decide who stays.
It’s a sponsor dinner held in a hotel ballroom just off downtown, the kind of space designed to feel intimate without actually being personal.
Round tables, linen napkins, soft lighting that makes everyone look a little better than they feel.
Logos are projected subtly onto one wall.
There are no banners or trophies. Instead, it’s all money and expectation dressed up as hospitality.
Unfortunately, it’s an environment I spent so much of my teenage years in before I was able to escape for college.
I arrive alone, telling myself it’s fine—logical, even expected. Rafe has rehearsal tonight, and even if he didn’t, this isn’t his world. It’s easier this way, at least on the surface. Still, his absence feels louder than the room itself.
Marco spots me almost immediately. He lifts a hand in greeting, a relaxed smile on his face, like he’s relieved to see someone familiar.
That alone tells me something. Marco isn’t a star.
He’s not fighting for his life either, but he’s close enough to the edge that every impression still matters to him.
“Ollie,” he says when I reach him. “You clean up nice.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I reply. “This is a special occasion.”
He laughs. “Preseason’s basically one long special occasion.”
He’s not wrong. Preseason starts next week. Not exhibition in the casual sense—these games count in ways the box score never shows. Coach will use them to test rotations, to see who communicates under pressure, who gets lost when plays break down, who can execute without forcing things.
We’ve got four preseason games before the real season starts. Four chances to prove we’re worth keeping when the stakes stop being theoretical. After that, the roster tightens, minutes shorten, and excuses disappear.
I don’t say any of that out loud. Marco already knows. Everyone here does.
A team liaison approaches with two drinks and hands me one automatically. I thank her and set it on the table untouched.
Marco notices and smirks. “Smart,” he says. “These things are always a trap.”
“I’ve got practice tomorrow,” I answer.
“So do I,” he says. “But I like pretending I don’t.”
Across the room, I spot Kirk. He’s hard to miss, mostly because he doesn’t want to be seen.
Loud laugh. Broad shoulders. The kind of guy who takes up space without checking if there’s room for him.
He’s holding court near the bar, surrounded by a couple of sponsors and one assistant coach who looks like he’s already regretting this assignment.
Kirk catches my eye and lifts his glass in a mock salute. I nod back, neutral.
“That guy,” Marco mutters, following my gaze, “is exhausting.”
“You don’t say,” I reply.
“He’s been chirping all camp,” Marco continues. “Acts like preseason’s a formality.”
I glance back toward Kirk. “For some people, it is.”
Marco snorts. “Must be nice.”
We’re shepherded toward one of the tables as more people filter in.
I take a seat between Marco and a woman whose name I forget the second she tells me.
Across from us sits Dan and his wife, both of them relaxed in a way that tells me they belong here.
Dan’s contract is solid. His place is secure.
That confidence bleeds into everything he does.
“This your first one of these?” Dan asks me.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“You get used to it,” he says, echoing the same sentiment I heard earlier today.
His wife, Jody, smiles at me. “You excited for preseason?”
I hesitate just long enough to be honest. “Yeah. And a little terrified.”
She laughs, warm and genuine. “That’s healthy.”
Dan nods. “Preseason’s where they see who you are when the lights aren’t blinding yet.”
Exactly.
The conversation drifts, easy and unremarkable. People talk about travel schedules, about how different the League feels now, about how fast everything moves. Someone asks how long I’ve been in LA, and when I say three years, they look relieved, like that explains something.
“So you’re already settled,” one of the sponsors says. “That helps.”
“It does,” I agree, even though the word settled feels misleading at best.
At some point, Jody leans toward me again. “You should come by for dinner sometime. We’re trying to get the guys together before the season really hits.”
It’s the second time they’ve made the offer.
I smile, sincere. “I’d like that.” And I mean it.
I do. I want to fit in here. I don’t want to be just another body on the roster.
I want to be someone people want around.
But even as I say it, I’m thinking about Rafe.
“I’ll check my schedule,” I add, more than aware I said the same thing to her husband.
Dan nods. “No rush. Preseason’s busy for everyone.”
Dinner winds down without ceremony. Plates are cleared, chairs shift, and the room loosens into clusters of people standing with drinks in hand, conversations overlapping now that the formal part is done.
I accept a glass of club soda and hover near the edge of one group, listening more than I talk.