“You guys want one night out? Bar’s better. Real drinks. And no lukewarm keg beer.”
“You buying?”
“Hell no, it’s your turn.”
More laughter. I glance over as I wipe down the counter. Three of them, all big shoulders and easy swagger, hands stuffed into letterman jackets. Teammates. Ollie’s teammates.
My pulse skips, and before I can overthink it, I slide a stack of flyers from under the counter. The band scraped together money for a few hundred—cheap black-and-white prints with our namein bold:Steel Saints. Live Set. Saturday.Three songs in the middle of some bar’s open-mic chaos. It’s nothing, barely more than stage time. But it’s ours.
I palm one and tuck it under the cardboard sleeve of the drink I’m about to hand over.
“Here you go,” I say, sliding it across with a practiced smile I don’t usually bother with for customers. “On the house—flyer, not the coffee. Got a set Saturday if you’re looking for something better than frat beer.”
The guy blinks down at it. His buddy leans in, eyebrows up.
“You’re in a band?”
“Something like that.” I keep my voice light, casual, like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not practically vibrating under my skin. “Steel Saints. We’re not bad. You should check it out.”
They exchange a look—surprise, amusement maybe—but not the dismissive kind. One of them tucks the flyer into his jacket pocket and nods at me. “Maybe,” he says, grin crooked.
I shrug like it’s nothing. “Up to you. Enjoy the coffee.”
They step away from the counter, voices booming again, the flyer burning in my mind. I wipe down the counter and play it cool, hardly recognizing myself. I don’t usually give a shit what strangers think, let alone athletes who probably couldn’t name a single band outside the Top 40. But if they show up Saturday? If Ollie shows up with them?
I press the button to grind the next shot, the machine rattling under my hand. My grin is sharp and private.
Not long after, the jocks leave in a storm of laughter and stomping sneakers, and the door swings shut behind them with a chime of the bell. The café fills back in with the usual drone: clattering keyboards, the hiss and pop of the espresso machine, the rustle of textbooks opening like bricks in a wall.
But my blood’s still running hot.
The flyer. The nod. The possibility.
If they go, he might go. And if he goes, he’ll hear me sing. He’ll see me not as some random dude who made him blush in a hallway or flirted in a gym, but as me. Onstage. Owning the noise.
“Earth to Rafe.” Sasha’s voice cuts through, sharp with amusement. She waves a receipt in front of my face. “You daydreaming, or are you pulling this double latte for table nine?”
“On it,” I mutter, snatching the slip. I slam the portafilter into the grinder, tamp down the grounds harder than necessary, and lock it back in. Steam bursts like a hiss of warning, loud enough to jolt me back into focus.
The line doesn’t shrink. Students shuffle forward, dark circles under their eyes, jittery hands gripping phones and laptops. I crank out cappuccinos, americanos, cold brews with an extra three shots. A girl with ink-stained fingers mutters, “Gracias,” when I hand her a flat white, and I can’t help smiling.
It’s mechanical. Pour, steam, pour, lid, sleeve, smile. The kind of work that doesn’t leave much space to think. But my head keeps circling back, like a record stuck on a groove.
Ollie. On Saturday. In the audience.
I’ve sung in front of strangers a hundred times—half-drunk college kids, jaded open-mic crowds, the occasional barfly who claps too loud because he thinks we sound like Nirvana. None of that rattles me. But the thought of him there, watching, listening? My stomach flips hard enough that I have to steady my hand before pouring foam into a leaf pattern.
“Your latte art’s trash tonight,” Sasha observes, sliding past me to grab a tray of mugs.
“Thanks for the support,” I deadpan.
She grins, eyeliner sharp enough to cut. “Don’t worry. They’ll drink it anyway. Caffeine’s caffeine.”
The night grinds on. A guy slams his books shut in frustration, muttering curses under his breath. Two girls inmatching sweatshirts whisper frantically over flash cards, one on the verge of tears. A table of computer science majors hog the outlets with a tangle of cords like they’re building a bomb.
“Service industry during finals,” Sasha mutters. “Should come with hazard pay.”
I laugh, wiping down the counter between orders. “At least no one’s puked yet.”
