Chapter 21
twenty-one
CASS
The final horn blares, confirming the Devils win.
Around me, thousands of bodies surge to their feet, screaming themselves hoarse, spilling beer, and hugging complete strangers. Music pounds through the speakers, the bass so heavy I feel it vibrating in my teeth.
But I just sit, my heart still hammering from the fact I saw Ben transform.
The ghost from the first period, moving through the game like he was underwater, became something fierce and sharp and utterly relentless. He’d been everywhere, so brutal and reckless and fucking beautiful it stole the breath from my lungs.
What’s the plan here, Vance?
I came here to offer a fragile olive branch I couldn’t articulate in a text, hoping he’d see me. But now that the game is over and the crowd is thinning, nervousness floods in to replace the adrenaline. Because I don’t know what to do or what to say or how to act.
Because Ben Kellerman has, apparently, infected me with his disease.
I force myself to stand and join the exiting fans, finally finding myself near the locker room. I lean against a concrete pillar, waiting for him, and desperately trying to avoid eye contact with anyone who might question why I’m here, because I don’t quite know the answer to that myself.
This is stupid. What if he walks right past you? Or, worse, what if he stops, gives you a polite smile, and says thanks for coming like you’re just a fan.
After a while, the team exit door swings open, and he steps out. His face is flushed from his shower after the game, and he’s scanning the concourse, his green eyes moving over faces with frantic, searching urgency.
He’s looking for someone.
Please be looking for me.
The thought is so raw and desperate it scares me, because I don’t usually do hope. Hope is the setup for the fall. But there’s something in the way he’s moving, the way his whole body is tense with purpose, that makes it impossible to look away.
And then his gaze lands on me.
His eyes widen, just a fraction, then soften with something that looks like relief so profound it makes my chest ache. Then he starts walking toward me, his path cutting through the stragglers, until he’s standing right in front of me, clearly exhausted but also hopeful in equal measure.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and I’m fully prepared for the Kellerman Retreat. And if it comes, I’ll know, because I’m too emotionally exhausted to fight it. All the sarcasm, all the armor, all the fuck-you energy… it’s all just… gone.
In its place is hope, and if it fails, if I’m wrong, I’m done for.
“You played well,” I say, my voice quiet. “Like, really well.”
A small, almost shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and the victorious athlete dissolves into the gentle, uncertain boy who sat on my floor and confessed his wounds, then ran away the moment things got spicy. “Yeah,” he says, a flush creeping up his neck. “I had a good reason to.”
The admission sits heavy between us, and I don’t know what to do with it. My brain is screaming at me to make a joke or a sarcastic comment, to deflect, or to do literally anything other than stand here and feel the full weight of what he’s saying.
“Walk with me?” he asks, his voice tentative, as if he’s sensing my doubt. “I’d like a do-over for the other night…”
“You want me naked and on top of you again?” I smirk. “Isn’t there some sort of rule against sex inside the arena?”
“Uh, I—” He cuts himself off, flushing red, choking back words. “I didn’t mean that, I—”
“Relax, Ben.” I smile, reaching for his hand. “I’d love to walk with you, and we’ll see where it goes from there, OK?”
“I’d like that.” He nods, squeezes my hand, and we walk out of the arena and into the night.
The walk back across campus starts in silence, the kind where both of us are too afraid to break whatever fragile thing is forming between us. We steal glances at each other, and I see the transformation from the victorious athlete back into the quiet, gentle boy.
But then he surprises me, stopping under a streetlight just outside Hughes Hall, the brick building looming behind us. The orange glow casts sharp shadows across his face, and I can see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the way his jaw is tight like he’s holding something back.
And I know this is the spot.
This is where it happens, one way or another.
The tension between us is thick, but it’s not the frantic, sexual tension from my room. It’s something heavier, and infinitely more meaningful. I watch him gather himself, his jaw working as if testing out words before he speaks.
He finally takes a shallow breath, lifting his gaze to meet mine. “I’m really sorry about the other night,” he says. “I think I was worried about you being upset and drunk, and I was nervous about it being my first time and not wanting to be like every other asshole, and—”
“Ben,” I say, cutting him off. “I know, OK?”
The way he’s looking at me—like I’m something precious and fragile and utterly incomprehensible—melts me. A small, genuine, and slightly shaky smile touches my lips, and it seems to unlock whatever is holding him back from relaxing and from being present.
He looks down at me, and in that moment, I see it all. The hero from the ice and the broken boy from my room. The confident athlete and the anxious kid who runs when he’s scared. All of it, tangled together in a way that suddenly makes perfect, devastating sense.
He lowers his head.
I meet him halfway.
The kiss is slow, chaste at first, a simple, hesitant press of lips. It is nothing like the explosive, public thing at the party. That had been for an audience, but this kiss is quiet, private, just for us. And somehow it’s more devastating because it’s real.
When I tilt my head, deepening it slightly, he lets out a shuddering breath, and his lips soften against mine. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek with a surprising gentleness. The cold October air surrounds us, but where our bodies connect, there’s warmth.
The kiss is tender and honest in a way that feels more intimate than anything we’ve done. There’s no urgency, no desperation. Just the slow, careful exploration of two people who are terrified of breaking something fragile.
His other hand settles on my waist, steady and anchoring him, and I lean into the touch, allowing myself to trust it. And when we finally pull apart, both of us breathing a little harder, I see the same dazed wonder on his face that I feel in my chest.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, then steps back, giving me space. “Goodnight,” he says. “I hope we can keep seeing where this goes.”
“I’d like that,” I whisper. “But I don’t want it to be days or weeks from now, Ben.”
The offer hangs heavy, full of promise, full of risk. But I don’t want to waste another second apart or pretending this is fake. Because when I gave him a chance, he didn’t run away, and he came back, unlike every other guy who’s seen the real me.
It feels like we’re fighting for each other, despite our own wounds and some stormy seas, and the way we’d kissed proved it’s worth fighting for. But, this time, I’m sober and letting him choose, perhaps the first person who’s ever done so.
“How about right now?” he says.
Ben’s hand is gentle on my lower back as we climb the stairs to his dorm, close enough that I feel the heat. It’s protective without being possessive, and the difference registers somewhere deep—a frequency I’m not used to tuning into.
Hope is dangerous. Hope gets you hurt.
But I don’t pull away as he unlocks his door and steps aside to let me in first. The gesture is so him, gentle and careful, like he needs to give me an opportunity to change my mind, or like I’m something that might break if he moves too fast.
You know how this ends, so run now!
But I ignore that nagging doubt and head inside, where I find the place is once again the polar opposite of my room.
The bed is made. The textbooks on his desk are stacked in neat piles instead of scattered chaos.
And there, on the shelf above his workspace, is the silver-faced Marantz cassette deck.
It’s not in pieces anymore.
I cross to it without thinking, my fingers trailing along the brushed metal faceplate with reverence. The last time I saw this, it was a gutted corpse spread across his desk—circuits and corroded solder joints, the kind of thing most people throw away.
But he didn’t give up on it.
I press play, half expecting nothing, but warm, scratchy jazz—Louis Armstrong—pours into the small room. The sound is rich and full, the kind of analog warmth you can’t fake with a digital file. The tape hiss underneath the trumpet is proof of life in something that should be dead.
Just like us.
“You got it working,” I say softly, turning to face him. He’s still standing near the door, watching me, cautious and hopeful. “It was a mess before.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. “Just needed some patience.”
The weight of what he’s really saying settles over me.
He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s standing right in front of me. He holds out a hand, palm up. “Dance with me?” he asks.
I stare at his hand. My old instincts are screaming at me—run, control, burn it down before it can burn you. But Ben didn’t leave. He saw the worst version of me—drunk, sobbing, raging—and held me. He followed me into my dorm. He sat through my vodka-soaked spiral.
And one little setback doesn’t change any of that.
I reach out and take his hand. His fingers close around mine, warm and solid, and he pulls me close. One large hand settles on my waist, the other clasps mine, and we start to sway. There’s no real rhythm to it, just the slow, gravelly pulse of Armstrong’s voice filling the small space.
As we move, Ben holds me like I’m something precious. His palm presses against my ribs through the thin fabric of my shirt, and the warmth of it spreads through me. I can feel the slight tremor in his fingers where they rest against my side, the nervous energy he’s trying to contain.
I tilt my head up to look at him, and his green eyes are soft, focused entirely on me. Not on my body or the performance or the idea of me. Just… me. The girl who can’t pass theory and is a mess most of the time and who has some sort of Man Repellant the minute things get real.
But this is real, and he’s still here.
“You know this one?” I ask as the song shifts. “It’s one of his best. The trumpet is incredible.”
He shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. I found the tape at a thrift store. Half the songs are unlabeled.”
“Staking a new path through the unknown.” I pause, then meet his eyes. “Seems about right for the situation.”
The words hang between us, and his eyes search mine, looking for the meaning underneath. I don’t hide it. I let him see. Then, with a confidence I haven’t seen from him before, he guides me into a dip.
My stomach drops as gravity takes over, and for a split second, I feel the instinctual panic of falling—the loss of control, the terror that he’ll let go, that I’ll hit the ground hard and alone like I always do.
It’s the exact feeling of stage-diving into a crowd you’re not sure will catch you. That moment of free fall where you’re utterly, completely vulnerable, and all you can do is trust and hope you don’t hit concrete.
But his arm is a steel band around my waist, holding me effortlessly and securely, suspending me inches from the floor. I look up at him, the world tilted, and the realization cuts through every defense I have left.
He has me completely.
Like someone he doesn’t want to lose.
And he isn’t going to let me fall.
He pulls me back upright, but he keeps me close, so close I can feel the rapid thud of his heart against my chest. He leans down, resting his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin.
“I promise I won’t run this time,” he whispers against my temple.
“Show me,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods, his eyes dark with a reverence that makes my knees weak, and then he lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, my arms looping around his neck, and he carries me the few feet to his bed. He lays me down so carefully, so deliberately.
This isn’t conquest.
This is homecoming.
He hovers over me for a moment, his eyes tracing my face like he’s memorizing every detail, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes—want battling fear, hope fighting shame—as if he’s got his own internal voice screaming at him.
“Ben,” I whisper, reaching up to cup his face, my thumb stroking along his jaw. “I’m here. I want you. You’re good enough.”
After a second, he nods and lowers himself onto the bed beside me, his body curving toward mine. I turn to face him. We’re lying on our sides, inches apart, the music still playing softly in the background. His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.
And then I kiss him.