By the third conversation, it’s like I’ve always been here. They don’t make me explain myself. Maybe that’s a sports team thing—once the captain brings you in, you’re in. Still, every few minutes, my gaze finds him. He meets it more than once; the tug in my chest is Pavlovian at this point.
“Yo, Rafe.” A guy with a shaved head and a grin like trouble points at me. “That song last week—the new one. That about anyone we know?”
I smile without showing teeth. “It’s about whoever hears it.”
Ollie hears me from across the room. It’s not a flinch exactly—more like a change in air pressure. He looks down at his cup, then up, then excuses himself from a knot of people and cuts across the living room toward me. The brunette watches him go and watches me, too, surprised and curious in equal measure. I sip the cola-hangover and pretend the room isn’t bright with knowing.
“Want a tour?” he asks when he reaches me, quiet enough for just me to hear.
“Of your castle?” I lift my chin. “Lead on, Captain.”
We peel off down the hall. The noise dulls to a manageable thump. The first door is a bathroom (occupied, laughter behind it), second on the left is a bedroom where two guys and a very determined dog are wrestling over a slice of pizza, third is a laundry room that smells like detergent and damp cotton. He keeps going.
At the end of the hall, there’s a back door. He pushes it open, and cold air breathes us in. The tiny yard is a slab of concrete and a dead grill, a cracked Adirondack chair, and a fence with a loose board that taps against itself in the wind. The Christmas lights out here don’t work at all. It’s blessedly dark.
We step out. The door clicks shut behind us, and the party becomes a heartbeat through the wall.
“It’s not much,” he says, like he owes me an apology for his yard.
“It’s perfect,” I say, and mean it.
Our breath ghosts in front of us. Somewhere two houses over, a dog barks twice. I lean on the railing that isn’t a railing, just a wobbly two-by-four someone nailed to the concrete at some point. He stands beside me, hands in his pockets, then out, then in again. Without the indoor glow, his edges look softer. He’s still immaculate, somehow, even with hair dried into a not-quite-curl at the ends and a sweat-darkened collar.
We don’t talk at first. The quiet isn’t awkward. It’s… deliberate. He looks up—the smear of city sky is a darker shade of nothing, one plane blinking a slow red dot. I look at him. It’s reflex at this point.
“You leave tomorrow?” he asks.
“Stupid early,” I say. “Cheapest flight, death o’clock. My mother will still be up, because she’s a witch who never sleeps.”
He huffs—a smile without teeth. “How long?”
“Week.” I nudge him with my elbow, gentle. “You?”
“Home after practice Monday,” he says. “A few days. Back before New Year’s.”
“Can’t miss drills. Coach would weep.”
“He doesn’t weep,” he says, deadpan, and we both laugh quietly at the same time.
A breeze sharp enough to be almost a warning slips through the yard. He shivers. It’s small, but I catch it. I offer my jacket before I can overthink it. He stares at it, then at me, then shakes his head.
“I’m fine,” he says. But he steps closer anyway, heat settling between our shoulders like an idea that doesn’t want to leave.
“Your guys are nice,” I say. “Louder than my amp, but nice.”
“Yours are louder,” he counters.
“True,” I allow. “We come with ear protection.”
He looks at me then, directly, like he’s clicking something into place. In the dim, his eyes look darker; I can’t tell if that’s the light or the fact that we’re outside of everyone else’s story.
“Thanks for coming,” he says.
“Wouldn’t miss the last game before break,” I say. “I’m practically a fan now. I understand at least three rules.”
He smiles, slow. “Yeah? Which three?”
“Traveling, fouls, and that whatever you did in the last minute was rude to the other team and you should apologize.”
