My fists clench against the urge to take a swing at people I’ve never even met.
I lean back on my palms, studying him. He looks like he hasn’t taken a full breath since he left the gym. Shoulders up around his ears, eyes shadowed. I want to reach out, press a hand against the back of his neck, rub some of that tension away. Instead, I take a long pull of my beer to buy myself a second.
“They want you to ditch basketball?”
He laughs, but it’s hollow and ugly. “They don’t even call it basketball. To them it’s… something I’m wasting time on when I should be focusing on the family business. My dad keeps reminding me I’ll have to take over someday, that I need to startlearning now.” His grip tightens on the bottle until his knuckles pale. “And my mom—she just smiles and nods along. Pretends she’s proud when the cameras are around, but behind closed doors? It’s always the same speech. ‘This isn’t forever, Oliver. Be smart. Don’t get distracted.’”
The bitterness in his voice burns hot.
I can’t help it—I bark out a laugh. Sharp. “Jesus. They really don’t get it, do they?”
Ollie shakes his head, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Then fuck them,” I say. No hesitation, no softening the blow. “Fuck your parents and their perfect plan. You’re not some company puppet, Ollie. You’re a fucking athlete, and a good one. They don’t get to decide what your dream’s worth.”
His head snaps toward me, eyes wide, like no one’s ever said that out loud to him before.
“I mean it,” I add, leaning forward. “Fuck. Them.”
For a second, he just stares, caught between shock and something else—something raw. His lips part, but nothing comes out.
“You’ve worked your ass off for this,” I go on, heat building in my chest. “You lead your team, you put in the hours, you bleed for this sport. And they want to call it a hobby? They can go straight to hell. You’ve got one shot at this, Ollie. Don’t let them steal it from you.”
The silence that follows is thick. He’s still looking at me, eyes stormy, mouth pressed tight. Like he’s fighting not to feel something.
Finally, he huffs a laugh, quiet and shaky. “You don’t get it.”
“Maybe not,” I admit. “But I get you. And I know you’ll regret it every damn day if you let them chain you to that company.”
His throat works, a swallow hard enough that I hear it. His hand shifts on the bottle and loosens. For the first time since hewalked in, he sits a little straighter, like the weight’s shifted—even if just an inch.
“You sound so sure,” he says, voice low.
“Because I am.”
Another silence, but this one feels different. Not empty. Charged.
I watch him, the way the shadows cut along his cheekbones, the way his hoodie pulls tight across his shoulders. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know how.
And maybe I’m imagining it, but his breathing’s heavier now. Like he’s finally letting some air in.
Ollie’s hand tightens on the beer again, then loosens like he’s catching himself. His eyes track the floor, then the wall, anywhere but me. That restless energy, that need to control, to keep everything locked down—it’s leaking through the cracks.
I set my own bottle on the nightstand. “Hey,” I say, softer now.
He glances up.
“Look at me.”
He does. And Christ, it guts me. His eyes aren’t just dark—they’re exhausted. Like the weight of his family, his team, his future is pressing down on him all at once.
I shift closer, slowly so he can stop me if he wants. My hand comes up, hovers a second, then lands on the back of his neck. Warm skin under short hair, muscles tight as cables. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move at all.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” I tell him.
His breath shudders out, shaky. The sound of it sinks into me.
He leans—just barely, but enough that his temple brushes mine, enough that his weight tilts toward me. My fingers flex against his neck, steadying the touch.
