When he finally emerges from the locker room, hair damp, duffel slung over his shoulder, he’s already swallowed by his teammates. They’re loud, still buzzing, tossing insults and congratulations back and forth. One of them dribbles an invisible ball down the hallway; another raps out a victory chant. They’re all big, all built, all radiating that same mix of sweat and adrenaline.
And then there’s Ollie, walking in the middle of them like gravity holds him differently. He’s smiling, yeah, but it’s a smaller thing than theirs, controlled, like he’s keeping a lid on it even now. He doesn’t shove or shout. He claps one guy on the back, nods at another, but it’s like he’s already compartmentalized the win and moved on to the next thing.
It’s jarring, seeing him like this. With me, he’s… different. Not soft exactly, but unarmored in small ways. Here, with them, he’s the captain again. The role looks heavy on his shoulders, but he wears it well.
“Rafe!”
His voice cuts through the din, and suddenly every set of eyes swivels toward me.
Shit.
I lift a hand in a casual wave, like this is normal, like I always hang around basketball locker rooms waiting for their leader to collect me.
“This is him,” Ollie tells the guys, tipping his chin toward me. “Band guy.”
That earns me a few grins and nods. One of them—Marco, I think—gives me a once-over and smirks. “You’re the reason he’s been sneaking off Sunday afternoons?”
Ollie shoots him a look I can’t decode. “We’re playing again this weekend,” he says simply. “Come on. We’re heading to my place.”
And just like that, I’m folded into the tide of jocks streaming out into the night.
The air outside is cold for LA, crisp in a way that bites my ears, but no one else seems to notice. They’re too busy replaying highlights of the game, reenacting shots with wild gestures, or arguing about fouls that should’ve been called. Their voices bounce off the concrete as we head toward the off-campus houses where the athletes live.
I trail a half step behind, close enough to be in it, far enough not to feel swallowed whole. It’s fascinating, watching Ollie in this element. He laughs at their jokes, but never the loudest. He doesn’t compete to outshout them. When two guys nearly start shoving over whose dunk was better, he cuts in with one sharp, dry comment that makes them both laugh instead. He manages them without looking like he’s managing.
It’s captain mode, through and through.
And yet, every so often, his gaze flicks back at me. Quick, checking, like he’s making sure I’m still here. Each time it happens, my chest pulls tighter.
We get to the house—a two-story place with a battered porch and Christmas lights that someone half-assed onto the railing. Music’s already pulsing faintly from inside, a low beat that shakes the windows. One of the guys throws the door open and the heat spills out, warm and humid from too many bodies already inside.
The living room’s full of people—other players, a few girls with short skirts and long hair, a couple of guys who look like regular students hanging on the edges.
I follow Ollie in, and again I feel the eyes. Not hostile, not even unfriendly. Just curious. I don’t exactly blend—tattoos inked down my arm, eyebrow ring catching the light, jeans ripped enough to earn a frown from someone’s mom. But a few people nod at me like they know who I am, or at least what I do.
“Band guy,” one of the players repeats, pointing at me. “You got groupies yet?”
The question earns a round of laughs from the circle, and I grin, leaning into it. “Equal-opportunity groupies,” I say smoothly. “Guys, girls, whoever shows up. We’re not picky.”
That gets a louder laugh, a couple of whoops. Someone claps me on the back like I just scored a point.
“Respect,” Marco says, raising his cup. “That’s how you build a following.”
“They’re already starting to,” another adds. “Saw your set at Frankie’s. Place was packed.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool even though my chest kicks at the acknowledgment. “We’re working on it. First it’s bars and parties. Then clubs. Then arenas. Gotta climb the ladder.”
They hoot and cheer again, raising their cups. I clink mine against one, though it’s still empty, and shoot a look at Ollie. He’s smiling, watching the exchange, but his eyes are a little sharper. Like he’s measuring the line between the Rafe who jokes with his teammates and the Rafe who plays songs too honest for daylight.
And beneath all of it—the noise, the bodies, the heat—there’s still that pull. The awareness of him across the room, the line that tugged tight the second we left the gym and hasn’t loosened since.
The house swallows us whole—warm, loud, and already sticky with spilled beer. Music thumps from a Bluetooth speaker on a bookshelf that’s losing a war against gravity. Someone’s draped a string of Christmas lights across a framed jersey; half the bulbs are dead, which somehow makes the space feel more lived-in and less rehearsed. The kitchen’s a mess of red cups, a leaning tower of pizza boxes, and a beer pong table where two guys argue over whether elbows crossed the line like it’s a constitutional crisis.
Girls slip in and out of the living room like currents—lip gloss and perfume and laughter that spikes when it needs to. A tall brunette with glitter on her collarbone angles in toward me with a smile that’s all invitation. I make small talk; she recognizes me from Frankie’s and tells me her roommate cried during our last song. I say, “I hope in a good way,” and she says, “Obviously,” and touches my arm with a little flourish like punctuation. Across the room, a guy in a Panthers hoodie clocks it and grins, raises his brows at me like,damn, rock star. I lift my empty cup in a toast I don’t feel and sidestep toward the kitchen to actually fill it.
Ollie is in the middle of it all without being swallowed by it. He does the rounds—claps shoulders, trades a joke here, a compliment there, defuses a brewing argument over someone’s ex with two words and a look. Girls orbit him too—one leans in, says something in his ear; he smiles, but it’s the polite one, the camera one. If I hadn’t been in quiet rooms with him, I might miss the difference. I don’t.
I pour something that tastes like cola and hangovers into my cup and post up near the edge of the living room where the couch gives way to a hallway. A couple of the guys box me in with questions about the band—where we’re playing next, whether our drummer can actually count, whether we can cover a song for a teammate’s birthday. I trade quips, promise nothing…. Ipromise everything. Someone asks the groupies question again, and I keep it light. “We’re equal opportunity,” I repeat. “If you scream the loudest, you get the setlist.” Laughter pops like corn.
