I don’t need a scoreboard to know what I found
A heartbeat out of rhythm, a captain unbound.
I tap the pen against the page, scribble another line, cross it out, try again. Ollie’s frown hovers in my mind, that furrow between his brows when he’s holding something in. His voice too—low and steady but not made for small talk. It’s different. Real.
Miles looks up finally, eyes sharp. “New song?”
“Maybe.”
“About who?”
I smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He shrugs, unconcerned, and goes back to his scribbles. That’s Miles: no prying, just waiting until the music tells the truth.
I stare at the page a moment longer, then mutter, “Fuck it.” I toss the pen down, pull my laptop onto my knees, and open the ticket site for tomorrow night’s basketball game. Prices are steep, but I don’t care. I click through the seats until I find one that won’t kill my bank account. Confirmation email pings my inbox. Done.
I lean back in the chair, grinning to myself. Guess I’m a basketball fan now.
The clock on the wall snaps me out of it. Shit. I’ve lost track of time. My shift at the coffee shop starts in fifteen.
“Later,” I call to Miles, already grabbing my bag again.
“Don’t forget to write it down before it fades,” he says without looking up.
I wave him off and bolt.
The coffee shop sits just outside campus, on the corner where the traffic never really stops. The neon sign buzzes faintly above the door, a chipped coffee cup glowing against the early December dark. Inside, the place is humming. It always is this time of year—finals creeping up, students mainlining caffeine like it’s the only thing keeping them alive. Every table’s full, laptops open, highlighters bleeding neon yellow across thick textbooks. The hiss of the espresso machine mixes with voices rising and falling, laughter cutting sharp against the low thrum of lo-fi music piped through old speakers.
I slide behind the counter, apron already slung over my head, and fall into rhythm. Grind, tamp, pull the shot. Steam screaming against milk, the metallic squeal softened by years of background noise. It’s muscle memory now. Coffee-making is like playing scales: boring, repetitive, but it gets you where you need to be.
Before Monday, this was all I saw. Customers, cups, names scribbled in Sharpie. Noise. I never paid attention to who came through—faces blurred into one long line, voices I tuned out while I counted tips in my head. But now? Now I catch myself looking up when the bell above the door jingles, heart jerking like I’ve been plugged into an amp.
And then it happens. A cluster of jocks pile in, laughing too loud, shoulders jostling, presence filling the café like they own it. They’re impossible not to notice. Big, tall, confident in that easy way. Basketball players—I recognize them now, thanks to late-night Google spirals and highlight reels.
Awareness thumps hard in my chest. My hand stills on the portafilter, just for a second.
What if he’s with them?
I keep my head down, pretending to fuss with the machine, heart climbing my ribs. It’s stupid, but I hold my breath. Like I’ll hear him before I see him, his voice cutting through the chatter.
But when I glance up, he’s not there.
It shouldn’t matter. I’ve only really seen him twice—Monday in the hall, today at the gym—but disappointment settles heavy in my chest anyway, a dull ache that surprises me with its weight. I exhale sharply, shove it down, and refocus on the line. Orders barked out, cups stacked, steam hissing.
Sasha’s on register tonight, rattling off totals without missing a beat. She hands me tickets, and I build drinks, the machine grinding beans drowning out everything else. Except I catch pieces of the jocks’ conversation as they wait by the pickup counter, loud enough to cut through.
“…Saturday, man, we gotta do something.”
“Yeah, but not the frat. That house is cursed.”
“Tell that to Jason. It’s his birthday.”
“Exactly why I’m skipping. Last time we went there, half the team got food poisoning.”
They laugh, deep and booming, too comfortable in their own noise.
Saturday night. Birthday. My ears sharpen, straining past the scream of the steamer wand.
