“Don’t jinx it.”
By the time the clock crawls toward ten, my back aches and my shirt smells like espresso. The line finally thins, leaving only the hardcore crammers hunched over laptops. Luis emerges from the office, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
“Good work, you two. Close it down.”
Sasha flips the sign to Closed, locks the door, and mouths, “Hallelujah.” We sweep up crumbs, wipe tables, and stack chairs. The hiss of the espresso machine dies, leaving the coffee shop too quiet, just the faint hum of the fridge in back.
I roll my shoulders, stretching, muscles sore from standing all night.
Sasha eyes me. “You seemed… distracted tonight.”
“Yeah?” I grab a rag and avoid her gaze.
“Yeah. Like your brain was somewhere else.”
I shrug, tossing the rag into the bin. “Maybe it was.”
She doesn’t push, just grins knowingly. “Must be a good somewhere.”
I snort, pulling off my apron. “Something like that.”
Outside, the night air is cool, sharp enough to clear my head. The streetlamps glow amber, catching the haze of traffic still streaming by. Campus looms in the distance, dorm windows lit, the sound of voices carrying faintly.
I shove my hands into my pockets, walking fast, energy buzzing under my skin even though I should be exhausted. The image of Ollie lingers—his flushed cheeks, the frown betweenhis brows, the way he admitted he recognized me. And now, the flyer in his teammate’s pocket.
He might be there Saturday. He might not.
Either way, I’ll be onstage, mic in hand, lyrics sharp and alive. And fuck, I can’t wait to play.
CHAPTER
THREE
I’ve playedin bars where the walls sweat with heat, in basements where the ceiling’s so low the mic stand barely clears it, in backyards where the cops show up before the second verse. But I’ve never been in a place that buzzes like this.
The stadium hums. That’s the only way to put it. The air itself vibrates, charged with thousands of conversations overlapping like a messy track mix. Kids in blue and gold shirts flood the stands, some painted up, some waving signs that say things likeGO PANTHERSorBASKETBRAWL TIME. The smell is popcorn, sweat, and some unholy blend of nacho cheese and disinfectant.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, craning my neck as the crowd ripples with noise.
“This really your first game?” Drew shouts over the din, grinning like an idiot.
“Ever,” I yell back.
He laughs, the sound swallowed by the roar as the band in the student section launches into a brassy fight song. He only occasionally takes in a game, but when I said I was interested, he was the first to offer to come with me. “You look like a tourist.”
“Fuck you,” I say, elbowing him in the ribs.
But he’s right. I do feel like a tourist—out of place in torn jeans and a leather jacket while everyone else is decked out in Panthers gear. But it doesn’t matter. My eyes are already drawn to the court, to the line of players warming up.
And there he is.
Ollie.
Captain. Number 12. Jersey clinging to him, shoulders broad, focus locked in. He bounces the ball twice, shoots, and sinks it like breathing. His teammates whoop and slap his hand, but he just nods, steady as ever. He doesn’t need the noise. Heisthe noise.
My chest tightens. It’s the first time I’ve seen him on his turf, under lights, with the whole school watching. And it’s—fuck. It’s something.
“You’re staring,” Drew says in my ear.
