CHAPTER
TWELVE
The knock isn’t loud.It’s more like a tired shuffle of knuckles against wood. I’m halfway through tuning my bass on the couch, but the second I hear it, I know.
It’s him.
I don’t even bother asking who it is, just yank the door open. Ollie fills the frame, broad shoulders bowed, jaw locked so tight it looks like it might snap. He’s not in workout gear, not in the crisp polo shirts he sometimes wears after team stuff. Just jeans, sneakers, a hoodie zipped halfway up. The hood shadows his face, but I don’t need the light to read the storm beneath his skin.
“Hey,” I say softly, worry quick to bubble to life in my gut.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps inside like he needs the safety of walls before he can breathe. The door shuts behind him with a dull click, cutting off the hallway noise, and suddenly it’s just the two of us, him carrying a weight big enough to fill the whole apartment.
“You want a beer?” I ask, already moving to the fridge. While he doesn’t drink heavily during the season, I know he occasionally allows himself one to kickback.
A pause, then a single nod.
I grab two, twist one open and hand it over. His fingers brush mine when he takes it, cold against warm, and that’s the only real spark in him so far. Everything else is tamped down, like he’s forcing himself not to crack.
The living room’s too open. The guys are out, but I don’t trust any of them not to come barreling in. “Bedroom,” I tell him, voice firm, clearly not a suggestion.
He doesn’t push back. He simply follows me down the short hall, beer hanging loose in his grip.
My room’s the usual mess—clothes piled on the chair, notebook open on the desk, a tangle of cables coiled like snakes near the amp—but Ollie doesn’t even blink. He drops onto the bed like his knees gave out and sits hunched over with his elbows on his thighs.
I sit beside him, close but not touching. I let the silence stretch. He’ll talk when he’s ready.
It takes a full minute before he exhales, the sound rough, like he’s been holding it in since morning. “Meeting with Coach.”
My brows lift. “Yeah?”
His mouth works, and then he says, “He wants me to start thinking about the draft.”
The word lands like a bassline dropped too hard—vibrating straight through my chest.Draft.I’ve seen it on TV, watched kids younger than me get picked, lives changed in a single night. For Ollie, it’s not a fantasy. It’s a breath away.
“This year?” I ask, careful.
He nods once, sharp. “Coach thinks if everything keeps trending up, I could go first round.” He runs a hand through his hair, restless. “And January’s when those conversations start getting… real.”
A slow realization clicks. “But technically you’re not a senior until next year.”
“Right.” His voice tightens. “But I’ve been stacking extra units since freshman year—summer classes, online credits. Coach and academic advising mapped a fast track for me early on.” He huffs a breath, annoyed at having to justify something he’s clearly worked his ass off for. “If I stay healthy and this season finishes strong, I can graduate early. I’d be eligible.”
“That’s huge. Like—massive.”
He doesn’t smile. “My parents don’t care abouthuge.They care aboutacceptable.”
There it is—the crack in his voice he tries so hard to seal.
I blink at him, impressed and furious on his behalf all at once. “But they want you to finish school,” I say gently.
“They want me to finish school the waytheyplanned,” he corrects, jaw tightening. “Four years. Proper internship. Then a desk in my dad’s company until the day I die wearing a tie with their last name stitched in gold on the fucking corner.”
The bitterness in his tone isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough to cut through the air between us.
“And basketball?” I ask.
He laughs, once. No humor. “A hobby. A phase. Something I’ll ‘be glad to leave behind’ when I grow up.”
