I could keep going, mind my own business, maybe grab a coffee before band practice. Instead, my legs betray me, carrying me straight toward him like I don’t believe in free will.
“Heading somewhere interesting, Captain?” I call, slipping into step beside him, grin cocked sharp because it’s the only way I know how to approach a guy like him.
His head tilts, quick glance my way, then back forward. “Town.”
That’s it. One word.
I clap a hand over my heart like he just stabbed me. “Not much of a talker, huh? At least lie and say you’re going for tacos. I can get behind tacos.”
The corner of his mouth twitches before he smothers it. “Not tacos.”
“Unforgivable. Blasphemous, even. LA tacos are basically a sacrament.” Not that I’d say that within hearing distance of my parents.
And then it happens—he laughs.
It’s quick, under his breath, but it’s real. And holy shit, I want to bottle that sound. I didn’t know this guy was capable of laughing at dumb shit.
“Okay, okay,” I say, riding the high of it. “If it’s not tacos, what is it? Please don’t tell me hair gel. Or a secret knitting club. I’ll never recover.”
He just exhales, like he’s deciding if he should answer. Finally, he says, “Music store.”
I trip on a crack in the sidewalk. Actually trip. My toe catches, and I barely stop myself from face-planting.
“You play?” My voice comes out too loud, too shocked.
His brows pull together. “Yeah.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter. “Why is that the most surprising thing I’ve heard all week?”
“You think basketball players can’t own instruments?”
“I think basketball players don’t usually have time to breathe, let alone play. What are we talking here—harmonica? Did you get roped into kazoo lessons?”
Another huff of air, dangerously close to another laugh. His ears turn pink. “Guitar.” He hesitates, then adds, “My parents forced me into piano when I was a kid. I hated it. Then violin. Hated it more. Guitar stuck.”
Something in his tone makes me shut up. He’s not just rattling off trivia—this is something else.
“Why guitar?” I ask, softer.
His jaw works, like he’s not used to answering questions about himself. “They wanted discipline. Structure. I found… escape.”
I chew on that while we pass a group of students lounging on the grass, textbooks spread out like props. They barely glance up, but a few whisper his name. Ollie doesn’t react. I watch him instead, the way he keeps his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, like if he lets them out, he’ll give too much away.
“You keep getting more interesting,” I say finally.
His glance is sharp, wary, but not dismissive. He doesn’t tell me to fuck off, which, given who he is, feels like a win.
The edge of campus shifts into town with no warning, just a sudden dip in quality. The grass gives way to cracked sidewalks, lecture halls to dollar pizza joints, palm trees to power lines that look like they’ll collapse in the next stiff wind. The air carries exhaust and fried food, a cocktail that says you’ve officially left school property.
A busker sits on the corner, strumming a battered acoustic, voice ragged but earnest. His case is open, a few crumpled bills inside. Ollie’s gaze flicks his way, quick, then away again. Like he’s not allowed to look too long.
I notice. Of course I do.
“So you’re buying what?” I press. “Please don’t say a recorder to accompany your one-man band. Or a cowbell. Tell me you’re not about to drop twenty bucks on a cowbell.”
That earns me another twitch of his mouth. “Strings. My acoustic snapped one.”
“Acoustic,” I repeat, like the word itself is suspicious. “Of course. Captain Marshall, secret folk musician. You’re killing me.”
