The blush climbs higher up his neck. He shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.
I grin like a jackal, because this is gold. Ollie Marshall, basketball royalty, playing guitar on the side? Nobody would believe me. But I don’t want to tell anyone. I just want to see it for myself.
We keep walking, and I let the silence stretch longer this time. Not awkward exactly—more like tentative. He’s not running me off. That alone feels monumental.
The shop comes into view ahead, wedged between a vape store and a thrift boutique that reeks of incense. The sign is sun-bleached, half the letters peeling, but I know the place like the back of my hand. It’s heaven for me. For him? I can’t wait to see.
The bell over the shop door jingles as we step inside. The air changes immediately: warmer, thicker, humming faintly with electricity and the smell of varnished wood. The walls are crammed with guitars—electric, acoustic, bass—lined up like soldiers or lovers, depending on how you look at them. Pedals and strings and tuners clutter glass cases, posters curling at the corners advertising shows that happened before some of the students walking past were even born.
I’ve been here a hundred times. For Ollie, judging by the way he freezes near the entrance, this is new ground. He looks out of place and way too tall, like he might knock over a display if hebreathes wrong. Hands still in his jacket pockets, jaw tight, eyes scanning but not lingering.
“Rafe!” Frank, the owner, shouts from behind the counter. He’s got a beard like a mountain hermit and a voice that’s always at least half amusement. “Still trying to break my amps?”
“Only with love, Frank,” I shoot back. “Promise.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he goes back to restringing something behind the counter. A couple of kids noodle on electrics in the corner, volume just shy of obnoxious. The place hums with its own kind of music, even in the quiet.
I turn to Ollie, who hasn’t moved past the door. “Come on, Captain. It won’t bite.”
He exhales and finally steps forward, slow, careful. His gaze flicks to the rows of acoustic strings, and I follow him. He scans the options, then reaches for a set like he knows exactly what he wants. Efficient. Of course.
“Strings,” he says simply.
I pluck an acoustic guitar off the wall and hold it out to him. “Show me.”
His head jerks up, eyes wide. “Here?”
“No, in the parking lot,” I deadpan. “Yeah, here. Unless you’re scared.”
The flush that spreads across his cheeks is immediate and fierce. “I’m not scared.”
“Prove it.”
For a second, I think he’s going to refuse. His jaw tightens, his grip on the strings pack firm. Then, with a sigh heavy enough to rattle the windows, he sets the strings on the counter and takes the guitar from me.
He sits on the little stool tucked against the wall, adjusting the strap like he’s done it a thousand times. His hands hover over the strings, hesitation in the set of his shoulders.
Then he plays.
The opening notes of “Nothing Else Matters” spill out, low and deliberate, each one ringing clean in the shop’s warm air. On an acoustic, it’s stripped bare, almost haunting. His focus sharpens; his posture loosens. His fingers move with practiced precision, not flashy, not showy—just honest.
The shop seems to hush around him. The kids in the corner slow their strumming. Even Frank glances up from behind the counter, brows raised.
And me? I’m transfixed.
I grab another guitar off the wall, settle onto the stool across from him, and slide into the chords beneath his melody. Bass might be my weapon of choice, the anchor that holds our band steady, but I love guitar almost as much. It’s where I started, and every time I pick one up, it feels like slipping back into an old skin. My sound wraps around his, grounding it, filling in the spaces. His eyes flick up, startled, but he doesn’t stop. He adjusts, shifts, lets me in.
And just like that, it’s us.
Two guys in a dusty little shop, guitars humming in harmony, no scoreboard, no spotlight, no spectators. Just sound and breath and the flicker of something neither of us names.
His cheeks are crimson, but his fingers never falter. Our eyes meet mid-rhythm and hold, the air thick between us. My chest tightens, the buzz under my skin electric.
The final chord lingers, vibrating through the wood, until it fades into silence.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
Then I laugh, soft, almost shaky. “Jesus, Captain. You’re full of surprises.”
