Chapter 16
The ball leaves my hands cleanly. It’s a perfect arc with no hesitation and no wasted movement. Swish even.
I don’t smile. I don’t celebrate. I don’t even look at the hoop once the shot lands. I’m already moving, already resetting, already demanding the next rep from my body like it owes me something.
Again.
The gym smells like sweat and rubber and that faint metallic tang that never quite goes away. My shirt is soaked through, clinging to my spine, my chest, my ribs. My legs burn in a way that’s almost comforting now. Pain I understand. Pain I can direct.
“Marshall,” Coach calls. “Take five.”
I ignore him.
Again.
The ball hits my palms harder this time. My hands sting. I welcome it.
“Ollie,” Marco says sharply from the sideline. “Jesus. Take the break.”
I finally stop, but only because I hear the edge in his voice. I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, breathing hard. Sweat drips off my nose and splashes onto the hardwood. My heart is pounding, but it’s steady and controlled. Exactly where I want it.
I straighten slowly.
Marco’s watching me with that look he’s had more often lately—half concern, half frustration. He’s toweling off, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes too sharp for this to be casual.
“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.
Dan snorts from a few feet away. “You say that every time someone points out you’re not fine.”
I glance at him. “You’re one to talk.”
He shrugs. “I know when I’m spiraling. You’re pretending this is discipline.”
Marco crosses his arms. “It’s obsession.”
The word lands harder than I expect. I grab my towel and wipe my face, buying myself a second. “We’re flying out tomorrow,” I say instead. “You want me distracted?”
“No,” Marco says. “We want you alive.”
Coach blows the whistle again, sharper this time. “That’s it. Everyone off the floor.”
I don’t argue. I don’t have the energy to push back right now.
As I walk toward the bench, I can feel it—the way my body is wound too tight, like if I stop moving completely, something bad might rush in to fill the space. I sit, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor while my heart rate comes down inch by inch.
We’re doing well this season. Better than well. The kind of well that makes analysts start saying if instead of maybe. The kind of well that brings pressure and expectations and the quiet hum of don’t fuck this up.
I like that part. It gives me something to hold on to.
“Ollie,” Marco says again, softer now. He sits beside me, shoulder bumping mine. “You really okay?”
I nod. It’s a lie, but it’s a small one. The kind people accept because it’s easier than digging.
Dan lingers nearby, watching us like he’s debating whether to step in. Eventually, he just shakes his head and grabs his bag. “Text me if you’re losing your mind,” he says.
I huff a breath that might almost be a laugh. “I always am.”
He doesn’t smile. That should bother me more than it does.
After practice, the locker room is loud in the usual way—banter, music, the slap of towels, the hiss of showers turning on. I move through it on autopilot. Shoes off. Gear packed. Phone checked.
No missed calls, but one text from Rafe.
Rafe: You coming by tonight?
My chest constricts, just a little.
Me: Yeah. After practice. Just washing up.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Rafe: Gates will be open. Robyn’s on tonight.
That tells me more than he probably intends. Robyn means serious. Robyn means something spooked them recently. Robyn means no surprises.
I type back a thumbs-up and shove my phone into my bag before I can overthink it.
A month ago, I thought space might help. That distance would give us breathing room. That if Rafe moved back to the house with the guys, we’d find some rhythm that didn’t constantly rub against my fear.
Instead, everything feels off-kilter.
We still see each other. We’re not broken. But we’re… altered.
Rafe doesn’t come to my place anymore. Not really.
Sometimes he’ll stop by with one of the guys in tow—Miles or Drew, usually—and they’ll hang out, PlayStation controllers in hand, noise filling the space so it doesn’t feel too intimate.
Sometimes Rafe stays the night, but only when it makes logistical sense. Only when there’s cover.
At the house, it’s the same in reverse. I’m not sneaking in, but I’m not exactly walking through the front door like I belong there either. Someone always knows I’m coming. Someone always adjusts.
The guys go out of their way for us.
Too much.
They’ll clear rooms. Switch schedules. Pretend they’re busy so Rafe and I can have an hour alone. They never complain. Never make it awkward. Which somehow makes it worse.
I hate feeling like a burden in the one place that’s supposed to be Rafe’s sanctuary. I hate knowing that the only thing that could fix this—the fear, the constant negotiation—is me.
And I can’t. Not yet.
I shower quickly at the facility, letting the water pound against my shoulders until my muscles loosen just enough that I don’t feel like I might shatter if someone looks at me wrong. I dress in clean clothes, hoodie pulled low, cap on out of habit even though I don’t need it.
By the time I pull out of the parking lot, the sky is already turning orange and gold. LA traffic crawls like it always does, indifferent to my internal chaos.
I drive toward the hills. Toward the house. The guys now call it The Amp.
Because everything is louder there. Bigger. Turned up. It started as a joke—Rafe’s amp leaning against the wall in the first place they rented together, the heart of the band’s sound—and somehow stuck when success outpaced intention.
The Amp isn’t subtle. It’s gated, sprawling, perched in a way that makes the city feel distant and unreal. On paper—and now in real life—Rafe officially lives here. In practice, it’s a rotating orbit of bandmates, crew, friends, and security.
Security.
That word still makes my stomach flip.
It’s not as intense as it could be. Not yet. There’s no wall of men in black suits or constant surveillance cameras tracking every step. But there’s structure now.
A driver who’s also their day-to-day security guy lives in the pool house. His name’s Seth. Mid-thirties. Calm. Observant. Always knows exactly where his phone is. He’s the kind of presence that fades into the background until you realize how much he’s paying attention.
Robyn and Vinny rotate personal detail for Rafe depending on schedules and perceived risk. Robyn is… formidable. The kind of woman who could end a confrontation with a look alone. Vinny is easier, warmer, but no less sharp. He remembers names, patterns, and faces.
The rest of the band has access to a team if they’re going out. Not bodyguards trailing them into bars, but people on standby. Plans in place.
It’s enough to make things safer. It’s also enough to make everything feel staged.
I pull up to the gates and slow. Security cameras track the car. I know the drill now. I lower my window.
Seth’s voice comes through the speaker. “Evening, Ollie.”
“Hey.”
“Go ahead and pull in. Robyn’s at the house.”
The gates slide open smoothly. I drive through, the gravel crunching beneath my tires, and feel that familiar mix of relief and dread settle in my chest.
I’m here, and everything is still complicated.
As the gates close behind me, cutting off the city beyond, I can’t shake the thought that this—this careful choreography, this half-life we’re living—isn’t sustainable. Something has to give.
I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to be the one who gives it.
The driveway curves past manicured hedges and uplighting that makes the property look unreal, like a set piece built for someone else’s life.
The Amp is quiet tonight, at least by its standards.
No music bleeding through open doors. No laughter rolling out into the yard. No cluster of bodies around the pool.
That should make it feel calmer. Instead, it makes everything sharper.
When I park, I sit for a second with my hands resting on the steering wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cools. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. I tell myself I’m here. I made it. I’m safe.
Then I get out of the car.
The front entrance is bright, clean, expensive. The kind of foyer that feels like it should come with a warning sign: Do not bring messy feelings inside.
The door opens before I can knock. Robyn stands there. She’s dressed in dark jeans and a fitted long-sleeve top, hair pulled back tightly, her posture radiating competence. Her gaze flicks over me once—quick and clinical, like she’s checking for weapons and injuries at the same time.
“Marshall,” she says.
“Robyn,” I reply.
She steps aside. “Come in.”
I do. The door closes behind me with quiet finality.
The house smells faintly of cedar and citrus cleaner. Somewhere deeper in the mansion, I hear the soft thump of bass from a speaker turned low.
Robyn’s eyes track me as I move past her. It’s not threatening. It’s just… constant. She’s a presence you don’t forget about, even when she doesn’t say a word.
“Miles and Rafe are in the kitchen,” she says.
“Thanks.” I round the corner and find them immediately.
Miles is sprawled on one end of the couch that fills a large space off the kitchen that’s more like a party room, long legs stretched out, a notebook open on his lap with a pen balanced between his fingers. He looks up when he sees me and breaks into an easy grin.
“Yo,” he says. “Basketball boy.”
I snort. “That’s not my name.”
“It’s a title,” he counters. “You should be grateful.”
Rafe is standing by the kitchen island, a mug in his hand. He’s barefoot, in sweats and a hoodie, hair loose, his whole posture relaxed. When he sees me, something in his face changes—his expression brightening in a way so immediate it hits me in the chest.
Like he’s been holding his breath until I walked through the door.
“Hey,” he says, voice softer than it needs to be.
“Hey,” I answer.