Miles swivels in his chair, looking at me like he’d sell my soul for a nap. “He’s right. I’ve fine-tuned this mix so many times it’s basically my second language. Any more and I’m just rearranging atoms.”
“Normal people don’t get a shot at The Lantern.” My voice is sharper than I mean, but I don’t soften it. “We hand in the demo tomorrow night or we lose it. That’s the deal.”
That shuts them up for a beat. But then we’re arguing anyway, because that’s what we do.
By the time they’ve convinced me we don’t need to mess with the demo, my throat’s raw and Drew looks like he might throw his guitar at me.
Drew throws a pick at my head instead. “Jesus, man. You’re vibrating like a live wire. Go do something before you give me an aneurysm.”
“Like what?”
“Like literally anything that doesn’t involve making Miles want to kill you.”
Miles swivels his chair once again toward me with a murderous glare. “Go. For the love of God. I don’t care where. Bar. Gym. Hell, hook up with someone and get it out of yoursystem. Just leave me alone with the mix before I strangle you with your own cable.”
“Subtle,” I mutter, but Eli adds his two cents from the couch, drumming on the arm of the couch.
“Seriously, bro. Blow off steam. You’ve been wound tight as fuck since break began. It’s creepy.”
They’re not wrong. I’m strung out, restless, every nerve humming, and there’s only one place my brain keeps going. So I grab my jacket and walk out before I bite someone’s head off.
It’s not a bar I end up at. It’s not a bed either. My feet carry me where they always have these past few weeks, to the one place that makes no damn sense for me.
The gym echoes when I slip inside. Sneakers squeak against polished wood while the slap of a ball bounces off the rafters. The Panthers are running drills, shirts plastered to skin, sneakers squealing every time they cut across the court. Their voices echo, deep and sure, a chorus of sharp shouts, laughter, and grunts that bounce against the high rafters. Coach’s bark cuts through the noise like a whip, his commands sharp, precise, relentless.
My excuse is air. I told myself the guys were right and I needed a break, to stretch my legs, breathe something other than stale weed and fried ramen. But the truth is Ollie—and the open practice they’re running. Usually the doors are shut tight, the Panthers locked away from gawkers and students like me. But tonight? Posters went up around campus about a “fan night,” a peek behind the curtain before conference play kicks off in January. Coach’s idea of goodwill.
It’s a perfect cover. I can tell myself I’m just another body in the bleachers, here for the free entertainment. Nobody has to know that my eyes aren’t on the team, not really. They’re on him.
He’s everywhere: online, in stats sheets, in articles that talk about him like he’s already halfway to the League, a goldenboy with numbers too good to ignore. But none of that hits like seeing him here. Jersey clinging to his shoulders, dark hair damp with sweat, every movement precise. Controlled. Always controlled.
He runs the drill like he’s not even breaking a sweat. Ball in his hands, cut, pivot, pass. It’s like the game bends around him. He doesn’t need to shout to be heard—he directs with a glance, a gesture, and the others follow. I know frontmen when I see them, and he’s one. He’s just not holding a mic.
I lean my elbows on my knees, pretending to scroll on my phone, but my eyes don’t leave him. He’s too fucking steady. Not cocky like the others, not showing off for the girls in the stands. Just solid. The kind of presence that quiets a room without asking.
The scrimmage ends in a blur of squeaks and shouts, and of course his side wins. The gym erupts, teammates clapping backs, whooping, Coach’s face a rare crack of approval. The crowd is small—it’s still break, after all—but a few locals and diehards stand to clap, and he acknowledges them with that same easy composure. A nod, a handshake, a word. It’s practiced but not fake, like he’s been trained since birth to wear this role.
I know the type. I know what it’s like to perform a version of yourself because people expect it. But there’s something in him that’s different. His mask doesn’t glitter—it steadies.
He towels off, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of effort he’ll never admit to. His teammates jostle him, laughing, teasing. He takes it, gives some back, but never lets go of that leash around himself.
His gaze lifts. Past them, past the clamor, straight at me.
The world hiccups. The noise drops out. There’s just him, eyes locking onto mine, sharp and searching, like he wasn’t expecting to find me but he’s not letting go now that he has.
And there it is—the ghost of a flush, crawling across his cheekbones. Not a little pink, not the faint warmth of effort, but something sharper. Startled. Almost embarrassed.
My breath hitches. My brain screamslook away.But my body doesn’t move.
Because I’ve been watching him for weeks now, from shadows and corners and even up close, convincing myself it was casual, research for lyrics, fascination without consequence. But right here, with his gaze on mine, with color blooming over his skin like someone lit a match underneath it? It feels like gravity has teeth, pulling me toward him with no chance of escape.
I should look away.
I don’t. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.
His gaze doesn’t waver. Not right away. And I swear it lasts longer than is safe, longer than either of us would admit if someone called us on it. My chest feels too tight, my pulse too obvious in my throat.
Then one of his teammates slaps him on the back, tugging him into their orbit again, and the line between us snaps. He blinks and nods at something the guy says, letting himself be pulled back into the noise. But the mark of it stays, hot and stubborn behind my ribs.
