I glance back just in time to see Ollie sink a three-pointer. The crowd goes feral. He jogs back down the court, expression steady, not gloating, already thinking about the next play.
Family. Conservative family, if my late-night stalking is right. Governor-family-adjacent. Church dinners and charity galas. That explains the leash he keeps on himself. Explains the polish. But still—the blush. The blush truly doesn’t fit. It’s real.
I find myself gripping the edge of my seat, leaning forward every time he touches the ball. The rest of the players blur together. It’s him I see. Him I can’t stop staring at.
The time half drags and flies at the same time, the crowd a constant wave of sound. Drew keeps “helping” with his half-ass commentary.
“That was a foul.”
“What’s a foul?”
“When you smack the other guy too hard.”
“Too hard?”
“Don’t ask me for specifics, man. I just know the hand-check thing is illegal now.”
“What the fuck is a hand-check?”
“Exactly.”
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You’re useless.”
He grins, unbothered. “But I’m still more useful than you.”
The scoreboard ticks up, points stacking. I don’t really know what’s good or bad, but when Ollie scores, the place erupts, and my chest lights up with it, like I’ve been wired into the whole arena.
At one point, he dives for a loose ball, hits the floor hard, and I feel my stomach clench like I took the fall myself. He pops back up, brushing it off, but my pulse doesn’t settle for a long time after.
“You’re seriously invested,” Drew says, eyebrows raised.
I glare at him. “Don’t you have nachos to eat or something?”
He smirks. “Nope. Watching you squirm is way more entertaining.”
The buzzer blares, signaling halftime. The crowd stands, stretches, floods the aisles. Music blasts through the speakers, some pop track everyone knows the words to. Students dance in their seats as the cheer squad tumbles onto the court.
I stay seated, eyes fixed on the players heading toward the locker room. Ollie’s in the middle, towel slung around his neck, listening to the coach, who’s walking next to him, nodding, serious as ever. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He never does. But then?—
He turns his head.
Just a fraction, scanning, maybe instinct. His eyes sweep the stands. And for a second, impossible and sharp, they lock on mine.
My breath stutters.
Recognition flares in his gaze. His brows twitch, the faintest crease of surprise, like he didn’t expect me here, like I’ve just broken a rule he didn’t know I had the power to break.
Heat floods my chest, my neck, all the way to my ears.
He looks away quickly, back to the huddle, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
“Holy shit,” Drew mutters beside me, grinning like the devil. “He saw you.”
I swallow hard, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the music.
Yeah. He saw me. And fuck if that doesn’t set me on fire.
The halftime show is a blur of tumbling and pep and a mascot doing tragic push-ups. I couldn’t care less. I’m stuck on the half second where Ollie’s eyes hit mine like he’d tripped a wire.
