Something loosens around his mouth. Behind him, the flow of players thins. The hallway smells like rubber and some citrus cleaner that will outlive us all. Drew takes a polite step back to pretend he’s not eavesdropping while very much eavesdropping.
I pull one of our crumpled flyers from my jacket pocket because apparently this is my move now. “We’re playing tomorrow,” I say, handing it over. “Three-song set. Not fancy, but the sound guy only hates us a little.”
He looks at the paper like it might bite him. Then he takes it, careful, like he’s signing for a package. His fingers brush mine for a second—nothing dramatic, just skin—and I feel the stupid spark everyone writes bad pop songs about.
He swallows. “I can’t promise.”
“I’m not asking for a promise,” I say, gentler than I meant to. “Just… if you want something that isn’t a gym or a court or a dinner where people talk about donations. It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s real.” I grin, deflecting before I sound like a brochure. “And the beer is cheap.”
He huffs. “I don’t?—”
“Drink,” I finish for him. “Right. Rumor mill says you’re allergic to fun.”
His cheeks color again. “I do drink occasionally. I just can’t get wasted during the season.”
“I get it.” I shrug. “I won’t tell your coach you were within ten feet of a bar.”
He looks at me for a second, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m dangerous or just an idiot. Then he does something I’m not ready for: He relaxes half an inch. It reads in the drop of his shoulders, the unpinching at the corners of his eyes. He tucks the flyer into the pocket of his warm-up jacket like it’s a fragile thing he doesn’t want to crumple.
“Okay,” he says. “Maybe.”
Maybe is a symphony when you expect a no.
Someone calls his name from down the tunnel—staff voice, clipped, official. Ollie glances over his shoulder, and I watch the captain refit himself across his face; it’s like watching someone pull on armor. He nods toward the voice, then back to me.
“I have to….” He gestures vaguely toward press and obligations and a life that isn’t mine.
“Go,” I say. “Break the chain.”
His head tilts. “What?”
Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. The song title slipped. I cover fast. “Break the… press? Whatever. Go do your captain thing.”
His mouth almost curves. It’s dangerous. “Good night, Rafe.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name ever, and the fact that he knows it at all…. My heart does stupid in my chest. “Night, Ollie.”
He steps back, turns, and is gone into the bright mouth of the tunnel, swallowed by the machine that prints the posters I saw in the student union. I stand there, head light, arm still extendedlike a moron for a heartbeat after he leaves. Then I shove my hand into my pocket and turn to Drew.
He’s staring at me with his whole stupid face lit up. “You are not normal.”
“Never claimed to be,” I say. My voice is rough. I clear my throat. “He took the flyer.”
“I saw.” He wiggles his eyebrows like he’s in a cartoon. “Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.”
“Or nothing,” I say, because I’m not an idiot. “He’s got a life with handlers and obligations and a coach who probably sleeps with one eye open.”
Drew claps my shoulder. “Maybe. But he walked over. In a building full of people, he walked over to you.”
That’s the part I can’t shake. He didn’t have to. He could’ve ducked into the press, into the locker room, into a sea of teammates and boosters and escape hatches. He came anyway. Said hi. Took a risk the size of a sentence.
We climb back into the night. The air is cool and clean and loud with students yelling victory into the sky. Drew talks about dumplings. I talk about absolutely nothing because my brain is a projector stuck on a loop: the three he hit from space, the towel twisting once, the flyer slipping into his pocket like a promise, the way he said my name.
Outside the arena, the campus is a parade of joy. Strangers slap palms with strangers. Someone bangs a drum. Someone else tries to crowd-surf for reasons that defy gravity and security protocols. I should be irritated by the chaos. I’m not. It feels like home, just louder and in a different language.
“Food,” Drew insists. “You need to carb-load your emotions.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say, but I let him steer me toward a truck that sells noodles out of a window. We eat standing on the curb, steam fogging in the air like breath. I burn my tongue and don’t care.
