He doesn’t look away this time. He holds it. Just for a beat. Long enough for me to see the flare in his eyes, the way his lips part like he might speak and then decide against it.
My blood roars, every nerve awake.
Fuck. He saw me. He remembers me. And if the flush creeping up his neck is anything like before, he’s not thrilled about it. Or maybe he is. I can’t tell. Either way, it sets me on fire.
I let my mouth curl into the smallest smile, not a challenge, not an invitation—just an acknowledgment.Yeah, I see you too.
His cheeks bloom, red as ever. The same red that started this mess.
And I swear my pen is already burning for the next verse.
He’s still focused on me. That’s the part that pins me. Most people flinch, break the gaze, pretend they weren’t staring. Not him. He holds it, neck heating, eyes steady like he’s not sure whether to step forward or bolt.
My chest feels tight, but not in a bad way. It’s a drag, a magnetic pull, like gravity’s playing favorites. I could stay leaning against the wall, scribbling in my notebook, pretending I’m not here because of him. That would be safer. Smarter. But the truth is, I don’t want safe. I want to hear what his voice sounds like when it’s pointed at me, not a reporter, not his teammates. I want to see if he blushes again up close, if the flush runs hotter when I don’t give him room to escape.
So I move. Boots squeak against polished floor, hoodie sleeves shoved up, tattoos out. I don’t even think about it—I just let the pull drag me closer until I’m standing a few feet from him at the fountain, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” I say, voice casual.
His brow pulls tight. “You—” He clears his throat and grips the edge of the fountain like it’s holding him up. “You’re the guy from the music building.”
The words shouldn’t hit like a punch, but they do. He could’ve brushed me off, acted like I was another forgettable face on campus. Instead, he admits it straight out: He remembers me. My pulse jumps, quick and sharp.
“Yeah,” I say, letting a grin spread slow. “That’s me. Guess I made more of an impression than I thought.”
His eyes widen, then flick away, like the floor tiles might rescue him. His knuckles whiten on the towel. “I just… recognized you.”
That does it. That’s the crack in the perfect captain armor. He didn’t have to give me that, but he did. And fuck if I’m not impressed.
“Well,” I murmur, leaning in just enough to make sure he hears the edge in my voice, “glad to know I’m not completely forgettable.”
His throat works around a swallow. The blush climbs higher, blooming across his cheeks, spilling down his neck. He shifts his weight like his body can’t decide whether to leave or stay. His jaw is tight, but his lips twitch, betraying the ghost of a smile before he forces it flat.
There’s tension thrumming between us now, sharp and electric. I can feel it in the way his shoulders square, in the way his eyes dart back to mine even when he clearly wants to look anywhere else. Recognition, embarrassment, something else I can’t quite name—but it’s there, alive in the air between us.
I chuckle. “I’m not here to steal your spotlight. Just checking the place out.”
He huffs, short and disbelieving, but he doesn’t move away. His gaze lingers longer than it should, like he doesn’t trust himself to stop.
And me? My blood’s humming. Because Ollie Marshall—the guy with the perfect smile for cameras, the captain who never cracks—just admitted he knows my face. And he’s blushing about it.
Up close, every detail is sharper. His fingers flex around the towel like he’s keeping time, squeezing once, loosening, squeezing again. His stance is captain-straight—feet planted, shoulders squared—but then one foot shifts half an inch back, like he wants to retreat but won’t let himself.
He drags in a breath, then surprises me by speaking. “You don’t… really look dressed for a workout.” His voice is steadyenough, but there’s a hitch at the start, like he had to shove the words out.
I glance down at myself—torn jeans, boots, hoodie sleeves shoved to my elbows. Not exactly gym uniform. I grin. “Maybe I’m not here to work out.”
That earns me a frown, tight and suspicious. “Then why are you here?”
The opening is too good to resist. I lean one shoulder against the wall and let my grin sharpen. “Looking for inspiration.” I let the word hang just long enough, then add, “And I think I found some.”
His throat works around a swallow. His gaze flicks to mine, then away, then back again, like he doesn’t know where to land. His ears flush red this time, a slow climb that betrays him more than anything. He shifts his weight, towel twisting in his hands.
And that’s my signal. I might be cocky, but I’m not cruel. The guy looks like he’s standing on the edge of something he doesn’t want anyone to see.
So I push off the wall and let the grin soften. “Relax. Just messing with you.”
He exhales, tension leaving in a rush he probably doesn’t want me to notice. He nods once, curt, and glances toward his teammates. They’re still loud, oblivious, calling his name again. Duty pulls at him, visible in the set of his shoulders.
