Chapter 5
The third preseason game feels different.
Not because the stakes are higher—they aren’t, not officially—but because my body finally stops buzzing like it’s waiting to be found out.
The first two games were all nerves and noise, my brain half a step behind my instincts.
Tonight, things slow down just enough for me to trust myself.
I don’t dominate the floor, but I don’t need to.
Instead, I make the right cuts and communicate on defense.
I don’t force shots that aren’t there. When the ball comes to me, I take it cleanly and put it where it’s supposed to go.
The coaching staff notices. I can feel it in the way eyes linger a fraction longer during time-outs, in the nod from the assistant coach when I come off the floor.
It’s working.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m tired in the good way, the earned way. I towel off at my locker, heart still hammering, sweat cooling on my skin as the adrenaline ebbs. Marco catches my eye across the room and lifts his chin in approval.
Solid.
That’s the word that matters right now.
I shower quickly, change, and check my phone the second I sit down. There’s a text waiting for me.
Lindy: We’re here. I’m losing my mind. Hurry up, dickweed.
I grin at my sister’s message before I can stop myself and text back.
Me: Behave.
Lindy: Never.
By the time I make it out to the concourse, I spot them immediately.
Lindy is impossible to miss. She’s perched on the railing near the tunnel, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she might actually launch herself onto the court if security weren’t right there.
Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, Monarchs cap shoved on backward, cheeks flushed with excitement.
Beside her are Josie and Kylie—both familiar faces from home, both looking like they’re trying very hard to play it cool while absolutely not playing it cool at all.
“Oliver James Marshall!” Lindy shouts the second she sees me. “Excuse you!”
“Jesus,” I mutter, but I’m smiling as I push through.
She doesn’t wait for me to say anything. She launches herself at me, arms tight around my middle, nearly knocking the breath out of me. “You were so good,” she says into my chest, voice muffled. “Like, actually ridiculous.”
I laugh and wrap my arms around her, lifting her just enough that she squeaks. “Hey. I thought you were supposed to be cool now.”
“I will never be cool. Not about this,” she declares. “You’re my brother.”
Josie grins at me from over Lindy’s shoulder. “She screamed every time you touched the ball.”
“That is a lie,” Lindy says immediately. “I screamed strategically.”
Kylie snorts. “You screamed like you were at a Taylor Swift concert.”
“Traitor,” Lindy hisses.
I step back, still holding Lindy at arm’s length, and look at her properly. She looks happy. Genuinely happy. The kind of happy that makes something warm loosen in my chest.
“You guys have fun?” I ask.
Josie nods. “It was insane. We’ve never been this close before.”
“Yeah,” Kylie adds. “I think I forgot to breathe for most of it.”
Lindy beams. “I told you he’d be good.”
I ruffle her hair. “You’re biased.”
“And correct,” she says.
We walk out together, Lindy glued to my side, her arm looped through mine like she’s afraid I might disappear if she lets go.
I don’t tell her she’s squeezing too tight.
I let her. Outside, the night is warm and alive, the city humming with postgame energy.
I steer them toward my car, automatically counting heads, making sure everyone’s accounted for.
“Okay,” I say once we’re settled. “Rules.”
Lindy groans. “Oh my God.”
“You are not going clubbing while in LA,” I continue. “You are not sneaking off. And if any of you think about doing something stupid—”
“We won’t,” Josie says quickly, laughing.
Kylie nods. “Promise.”
Lindy rolls her eyes. “You’re still such a dad.”
“I had to be,” I shoot back. “You were feral.”
She grins, unrepentant.
We end up at a late-night diner not far from the arena, neon lights buzzing softly overhead.
It’s crowded but casual, exactly the kind of place where no one looks twice at a group like ours.
I slide into a booth with Lindy beside me, Josie and Kylie across from us, menus slapped down in front of us.
“This is surreal,” Kylie says, looking at me over the menu. “Like, you’re actually a League player.”
“Don’t inflate his ego,” Lindy warns. “It’s already a problem.”
I snort. “Says the person who screamed my full government name in public.”
“Worth it,” she says.
We order milkshakes and fries and way too much food, the table filling quickly with plates and laughter. Lindy talks a mile a minute, recounting every moment she thought I might look her way in the stands.
“I waved,” she says. “You didn’t wave back.”
“I was in a game,” I point out.
“You could’ve tried harder.”
Josie grins. “She nearly cried when you scored that second basket.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Lindy glares at her, then turns back to me. “I’m proud of you,” she says, quieter now.
Something settles in my chest, deep and steady. “Thanks, Linds.”
We fall into easy conversation after that, the kind that comes from shared history and unspoken understanding. We complain about our parents—about the constant checking in, the thinly veiled concern disguised as advice.
“They keep asking if I’m being responsible,” Lindy says, stabbing a fry. “What does that even mean?”
“It means they don’t trust us,” I say mildly.
“They trust you,” she counters. “You’re the golden child.”
I snort. “You should’ve seen me at nineteen.”
She smiles at that. “Still. They listen to you.”
I don’t say anything, just sip my milkshake and let the moment pass.
For a little while, I get to be just Ollie. Not a rookie. Not a headline. Just a big brother with too much food on the table and a sister who looks at him like he hung the moon.
We linger at the diner longer than we should.
It feels rare to sit in one place without checking the time every few minutes, so I’m lapping it up.
Josie and Kylie slide into that comfortable rhythm of gossip and observation, trading looks, while Lindy leans against my side like she did when she was twelve. I let her. I always do.
“So,” Josie says, spearing a fry and pointing it at me, “does it feel different yet?”
“Different how?” I ask.
“Like,” Kylie jumps in, “do you wake up and think, ‘Holy shit, I’m a League player now’?”
I consider that. “Not really.”
Lindy snorts. “He wakes up and thinks, ‘Holy shit, I have to prove I deserve to be here again today.’”
I glance at her. “You’ve been reading my diary?”
She smiles, all teeth and affection. “You don’t have a poker face.”
“That’s slander,” I say.
She shrugs. “It’s observation.”
Josie grins. “She’s not wrong.”
I shake my head, but there’s no annoyance in it. This is easy. Familiar. These girls knew me before any of this, when the biggest thing in my life was whether I’d passed my last midterm or made the starting lineup. There’s comfort in that kind of history.
Fries disappear steadily from the basket between us. Lindy’s milkshake is already half gone. Across the table, Josie and Kylie have their phones out, shoulders pressed together, thumbs flying like they’re working on something important.
I point at them with my fork. “This is what college has done to you.”
Josie looks up. “What?”
“Constant scrolling,” I say. “At home, Mom would’ve smacked the phone out of your hand.”
Lindy snorts. “Please. She’d have just sighed really loudly and said she was disappointed.”
“Which is worse,” I add.
Kylie laughs and locks her phone for half a second. “We’re multitasking.”
“That’s not multitasking,” I say. “That’s gossip.”
Kylie grins, already turning the screen back on. “Exactly.”
“Oh my God,” Josie says suddenly.
Kylie peers at Josie’s phone and sucks in a sharp breath. “No. Way.”
Lindy straightens immediately, interest piqued. “What?”
Josie turns her phone so we can all see. “Have you seen this band? Steel Saints? They are everywhere right now.”
My stomach tightens before my brain catches up.
“They’re in Vegas,” Kylie adds. “They just played some insane impromptu show out on the Strip. Look at this.” She swipes, then holds the screen out toward Lindy, who squints at it.
“Oh shit,” Lindy says. “They’re hot.”
I snort. “That’s your critical analysis?”
“Yes,” she says seriously. “I stand by it.”
Josie laughs. “They’ve been blowing up all over my feed. Like interviews, clips, random photos. Apparently the lead singer is ridiculous live.”
Kylie nods. “I saw an interview earlier. He’s really smart. Like unexpectedly smart.”
My chest feels tight now, breath shallow, but I keep my expression neutral. I’ve had years of practice.
“Where are they from?” Lindy asks, already scrolling on her own phone.
“California, I think,” Josie says. “But—wait.” She frowns. “No. I think that’s where they went to college maybe. Hold on.” She taps at the screen, then looks up, eyes wide. “Wait. No way. The lead singer… do you know him?”
The question lands hard.
Lindy’s head snaps toward me. “What?”
Josie nods eagerly. “Yeah. It says here he studied music at the University of California before the band took off.”
Kylie looks between us. “You went there, too, right?”
I take a sip of my drink to buy myself half a second. “Yeah.”
Lindy stares at me, suddenly alert in a way that makes my shoulders tense. “Okay. So please tell me you know him.”
There it is. The moment where I decide how much truth to give. “I do,” I say carefully. “Yeah.”
Her eyes light up. “No shit.”
Josie leans forward. “Like—know him know him?”
I shrug, keeping it casual. “We hang out sometimes. He’s a good guy. The whole band are. I know them all from college.” That’s true. Entirely true. It’s also the furthest I can safely go.
Lindy studies my face, something thoughtful flickering behind her excitement. “That’s wild.”