Chapter 11
My grin hasn’t slipped, a miracle since tonight was absolutely not what I wanted. But apparently my husband knows me better than I know myself and insisted on this party for my birthday like it was a nonnegotiable act of public service.
“You need it,” he’d said. “No excuses. No hiding. No slipping away to watch film or pretend you’re tired.”
I’d tried.
I told him I didn’t want the attention. That I didn’t need anything. That birthdays weren’t a big deal.
He’d smiled like he’d already won. “That’s exactly why you need it.”
Now I’m standing in the middle of Steel Saints’ new house—mansion, technically, because calling this place a house feels like lying to myself—trying to keep my face neutral while Eli shouts over the music that this is the best night of my life.
“It’s your birthday!” he yells again, throwing his hands up like he’s announcing the cure for a rare STD. “You’re legally obligated to have fun!”
“Not legally,” I shout back.
“Spiritually!” he corrects, then points at me with his drink like he’s cracked a code. “You look like you’d rather be doing suicides.”
“I would rather be doing suicides.”
He gasps theatrically. “Disgusting.”
Someone behind me laughs—Marco, I think—and the sound makes my shoulders loosen even more. That’s the thing. I’m actually enjoying this.
I’m having fun.
The living room is packed, and I can tell Rafe has curated this guest list like he’s assembling a damn festival lineup.
There are my teammates—only the ones I actually like, the ones who feel safe, the ones who have never made me regret trusting them over the past eighteen or so months.
There are their partners, laughing, holding drinks, blending in like this isn’t insane.
There are the band guys. There are a couple of friends from college I’ve stayed in touch with.
There are a few faces I recognize from red carpets and press photos, people I’ve only ever seen online, now just…
leaning against the kitchen island with a beer in hand like they’re normal.
There’s a DJ in the corner who looks like he belongs onstage, headphones around his neck, spinning something that makes the floor pulse under our feet. A banner hangs over the far wall with my name on it in massive letters, because of course it does.
I catch sight of it and groan.
Rafe appears at my side like he’s been summoned by my annoyance.
He’s wearing black jeans and a fitted shirt, curls shoved back from his face in a small ponytail-bun thing, eyes bright with satisfaction.
He looks rested in a way that still surprises me sometimes, now that the tour is long over and he’s had time to actually sleep. For a while.
He leans in close, mouth brushing my ear. “Don’t glare at the banner.”
“I’m not glaring,” I lie.
“You’re glaring,” he murmurs with amusement. “It says ‘happy birthday.’ It’s not an enemy.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“I did,” he says, completely unapologetic.
I shift my weight, letting my shoulder bump his. “You’re insane.”
He smiles like I just complimented him. “You love me.”
“I do,” I admit in a whisper, and the ease of saying it catches me off guard even after all this time. It’s still a dangerous thing, saying it out loud in a room full of people, even if no one can hear us clearly.
Rafe’s gaze softens for half a second, something private and tender flashing between us. Then he straightens and turns that charm outward again like he’s slipping back into a performance.
“Okay,” he announces, clapping his hands once. “Birthday boy needs a drink.”
“I already have one,” I say, lifting my bottle in mild protest.
“That’s not what I meant,” he replies, eyes glinting. “You need the kind of drink that makes you stop thinking.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“Oh, it is,” he says, “and I’m about to prove it.”
He disappears toward the kitchen before I can argue, leaving me alone long enough for Marco to swoop in.
My teammate looks good tonight. Not dressed up exactly, but clean and polished, hair styled, wearing a button-down like he’s making an effort. His new wife, Carol, stands beside him looking radiant in a simple dress, smiling like she knows something funny about him and is waiting for it to happen.
“Birthday boy,” Marco says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Look at you. Being social. Like a real human.”
I snort. “Barely.”
Carol laughs. “We were genuinely shocked when the invite came through.”
“You’re mean,” I accuse, softening the words with a wink.
“I’m honest,” Marco corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Carol leans closer conspiratorially. “He spent ten minutes deciding what to wear because he didn’t want to embarrass you.”
Marco’s ears go pink. “Carol.”
I grin, the buzz of alcohol loosening me into playful mode so I go right ahead and bop him on the nose. “That’s adorable.”
He sighs and flicks my hand away like he’s swatting a fly, like this is the worst betrayal. “This is why I don’t tell you anything.”
“You literally tell me everything,” I point out. I’m not even joking. Marco is a sharer, and honestly, I’m grateful as hell to call him my friend.
“That’s because you make it impossible not to,” he mutters.
The music shifts into something heavier, the beat thickening, people moving closer to the open space that’s become an unofficial dance floor.
I’m watching Dan and Jody across the room—Dan’s still a player who’s steady and reliable, and someone who treats me like an actual teammate rather than an obstacle.
Jody holds his arm as she talks to Drew like she’s known him for years.
It still surprises me to see my world mixing like this. I’ve never had them come together before, too nervous to allow it to happen.
Dan catches my eye and lifts his glass. I lift mine back. Then he points at the banner and laughs.
Traitor.
Marco follows my gaze, taking in the room. “This is wild,” he says quietly, and there’s something almost soft in his voice. “Your friend’s band… they really made it.”
I freeze for a fraction of a second at the word friend.
It’s not malicious. It’s the agreed-upon truth. The label we built around this to keep it safe. Still, it lands heavy sometimes.
“Yeah,” I say evenly. “They did.”
Carol’s eyes are sparkling as she watches the crowd. “This place is ridiculous,” she says. “It looks like a celebrity house in a movie.”
“It kind of is,” I admit.
Marco’s brows lift. “How do you know all these people?”
I open my mouth, then close it. He’s not talking about Rafe and the guys—he knows we were college friends. But still, the answer is Rafe.
But I don’t say that.
Instead, I shrug. “LA’s weird.”
Marco laughs. “That’s the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.” He winks at me as he’s dragged away by Carol.
A cheer goes up from the other side of the room, and I turn to see Miles holding court with a man at his side who I’ve still yet to meet. He has his arm around the guy’s back as they stand side by side, laughing at something Drew is saying.
His date is probably in his late twenties, with a sharp jaw, dark hair. He leans in and says something that makes Miles laugh, bright and open. It makes my chest warm in a strange way. Not envy exactly, but something definitely like longing.
Drew is with a woman, Lily, who I know he’s been hanging out with for a couple of months. Her arm’s looped through his. She looks like she belongs in this world, confident and gorgeous, smiling widely as she shakes her head at Drew.
Everyone looks… happy.
Uncomplicated.
For a moment, I just watch, letting the noise wash over me. The scent of perfume and sweat and expensive candles. The flicker of soft lighting against high ceilings. The thump of bass through the floor.
This is what success looks like. This is what it costs. And somehow, tonight, it feels worth it.
Rafe reappears with two drinks in his hands, one of them bright green and borderline radioactive.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
He grins. “Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You trust me with your life,” he says, handing it over.
“That’s different.”
“Not really.”
I take a cautious sip and immediately cough. “Jesus.”
Rafe laughs. “Right? Isn’t it great?”
“It tastes like sugar and regret.”
He takes his own sip—then another, like he’s trying to keep the night bright. “Exactly,” he says, pleased. “Now drink it.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me,” he sings, then stands on his tiptoes, leans in, and kisses the corner of my mouth like he can’t help himself, then is immediately called away by Eli.
It’s brief enough that no one notices, but it sends a quiet jolt through me anyway.
Marco raises his eyebrows across the room at me like he caught something, but then he turns away, distracted by Eli shouting something obscene at the DJ.
A few feet away, Rafe is pulled into a conversation with Dan and Jody, and I watch him slip into it effortlessly, laughing, charming, listening like he genuinely cares.
He does care. That’s the thing. He didn’t throw this party for attention. He threw it because he wanted me surrounded. Because he wanted me to feel held by a community that doesn’t always exist in my world.
The DJ shifts into a song that makes the dance floor explode. Someone grabs my hand—Eli—and yanks me toward the crowd of bodies.
“Oh no,” I protest.
“Oh yes,” he shouts. “Birthday boy must dance!”
“I don’t dance.”
“You play basketball for a living,” he scoffs. “Your whole job is rhythm.”
“That’s not the same thing!”
Eli ignores me and drags me into the middle of the floor anyway.
At first I’m stiff, awkward, hyperaware of my height and my limbs and the fact that everyone can see me. Then the beat grabs hold. Marco joins in, laughing at me. Carol dances beside him, beautiful and carefree. Jody is here, too, dragging Dan into movement despite his protests.
Somehow, I’m laughing. It’s real and unforced. And then—across the room, through the blur of bodies and lights—I meet Rafe’s eyes.