I take a slow breath, trying to rein myself in, but it’s useless. The truth is, I’m already imagining him behind a locked door,that hoodie peeled off, the lean lines of his body under my hands. I want to take him apart, taste him, learn every sound he makes when he forgets he’s supposed to be perfect.
He’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him.Please tell me he booked a room.Because if he didn’t, I’ll find one. I’ll sell my damn bass if I have to.
But I don’t say any of that. I swallow it down, force my voice to stay even, and land on: “Where are you flying to next?”
“Phoenix.” His mouth twists. “Then, if we win, back to Vegas for the regional final.”
“Then it’s fate,” I say. “You’re meant to keep winning.”
He gives me a look. “You think fate watches basketball?”
“Only when it’s rooting for you.”
That earns me a deep laugh—soft, genuine, cutting straight through the noise.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the far side of the club. “Let’s get out of the spotlight before someone asks for your autograph.”
He hesitates just long enough to make my heart stutter, then follows. We slip through a half-open side door onto a quieter mezzanine that overlooks the main floor. The bass is muffled here, just a slow pulse under our feet. From up here, the crowd looks like another universe—glittering, loud, somewhere else entirely.
For a second, neither of us speaks. Then Ollie exhales, leaning his elbows on the railing. “You know, I didn’t plan on staying,” he says. “I told myself I’d come by, see the first song, leave before anyone noticed. But then you kept on playing, then finally landed on that new one.”
“‘Velocity,’” I say softly.
He nods. “Yeah. That one.” He looks out over the crowd, jaw flexing. “I couldn’t move. I just… stood there.”
The air between us hums again. “That song’s kind of about you,” I admit.
“I figured.” His mouth curves, small but sure. “You didn’t exactly hide it.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Guess subtlety’s not my strong suit.”
He turns then, facing me fully. “Rafe,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says my name—like it’s the first time all night anyone’s spokentohim and notabouthim. “Thank you for being there yesterday. At the game. It really meant everything.”
“Back at you, baby.”
His eyelids lower at the term and he clamps onto his bottom lip. And fuck if I don’t want to haul him to me and kiss the shit out of him.
Something shifts. The lights strobe across his face, the edges of the room blurring. I want to reach for him, to touch his wrist, to feel something real in the middle of all this unreality—but I don’t. We’re standing close enough for the heat between us to do the talking.
“Come here,” I murmur.
He doesn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he steps closer until our arms brush. Just that—skin against fabric, a breath apart. His thigh presses lightly against mine. My pulse jumps.
“People can see,” he says, but it’s not a protest.
“Let them look,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, smiling that small, wrecking smile. “You like trouble.”
“Only when it looks like you.”
He laughs under his breath, then lowers it into something rougher. “You should probably go back before your guys wonder where you are.”
“They’ll survive.”
He looks at me, steady now. “You’ve got something huge waiting for you tonight, Rafe. Don’t let me be the reason you get distracted.”
“You’re not a distraction.” My voice catches. “You’re the reason it feels real.”
