He’s not dressed for this place—hoodie, jeans, Nike’s—but he doesn’t need to be. The way he stands, shoulders loose but alert, head tipped slightly as he scans the crowd, he draws the light without even trying. The pulse in my throat kicks hard.
He catches my eye across the room. For a heartbeat, the noise drops out. Then his mouth curves—not a grin, not quite shy either, just that small, deliberate smile that saysyeah, I came for you.
I’m moving before I even realize it, weaving through the crowd until I’m standing in front of him. Up close, he smells like clean soap and something faintly sharp, like adrenaline that never quite left his skin.
“You’re really here,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “They seriously just waved you in?”
He shrugs, eyes glinting. “Apparently I’ve got tournament cred now. Our win was all over ESPN.” He pauses, studying me. “Guess that means we’re both having a big night.”
“You think?” I laugh, shaking my head. “You were supposed to fly out.”
“I was,” he admits, sliding his hands into his pockets. “The rest of the team’s already gone.”
My brows lift. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
He glances away, half guilty, half proud. “I might’ve told Coach my parents were in town and wanted to grab dinner before I flew out.”
I blink. “You lied to your coach?”
“Technically,” he says, mouth twitching, “I just didn’t specifywhichdinner orwhichparent. I’m sure the place I grabbed a burger from had someone’s parent there.”
I stare at him, fighting a grin. “You really risked getting benched for a night in Vegas?”
“Not a night in Vegas. A night with you,” he says, and fuck if my heart doesn’t melt. Then, softer, he adds, “My dad’s company donates a lot to the athletic department. Coach wasn’t going to call to verify.”
That lands heavier than I expect. “So you used the family name?”
“Guess so,” he says, voice lowering. “First time it’s ever done me any good.”
The confession hangs between us, rawer than either of us meant it to be. I study him—the tightness in his jaw, the way he’s pretending not to feel the weight of what he just said. It’s not bragging; it’s resignation.
“You know,” I say, taking a half step closer, “anytime you want to break the rules to see me, I’ll always be your alibi.”
His eyes lift, catching mine. “Is that so?”
“Every damn time.”
He laughs under his breath, the sound rough and unguarded. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time.”
He reaches out and brushes his fingers against my arm. “But seriously, Rafe, you were unreal onstage.” His eyes flick down to mine, lingering. “You always play incredibly, but this—this was something else.”
“Yeah?” My chest feels too tight. “You think so?”
“I know so.” He tilts his head. “You were made for that stage.”
“Oh, I definitely was.” I can’t stop smiling. “How about you? How does it feel to be the guy every sports commentator is drooling over right now?”
He makes a face, half amusement, half exhaustion. “Loud. Exhausting. I haven’t paid attention to my phone, except for anything involving your name, since the buzzer. Lawrence, the athletic department’s PR guy, said my DMs look like a stock ticker.”
“Tell him to screen them for you,” I say, and it comes out lighter than I mean it to.
He huffs a small laugh. “He’d delete all the ones from girls and start answering the ones from League recruiters pretending to be my agent.”
“Smart man,” I say. “So, you staying till morning?”
“Yeah. My flight’s tomorrow, 10:20 a.m.” He glances down, thumb brushing the condensation ring on his glass. “Next game’s in two days.”
Thank God.Because if he’d already flown out—if I’d missed this chance to be with him—I don’t know what I would’ve done. My body’s still wired from the show, still humming with adrenaline and his name, and every time he looks at me, I can feel that edge of danger that lives somewhere between lust and gravity.
