“Yeah. I told them about tonight. Papá said,‘Hazlo con todo tu corazón’—do it with your whole heart. They get it. They know this is the thing that makes me feel alive.”
He goes quiet for a beat. “You’re lucky.”
“I know.”
His gaze drops to his cup. “My dad would lose his mind if I said I was quitting anything. He thinks hard work only counts if you’re in an office with your name on the door.”
“He still on the internship kick?”
“Yeah. Keeps sending me contact lists, like I’m one email away from salvation. He means well—he always does—but it’s like he can’t picture me happy unless it looks like him.”
“Maybe he’s scared,” I say softly. “Of what he doesn’t understand.”
He looks up again, and there’s no armor between us. “You ever get tired of being the one who understands everything?”
“Constantly.” I reach across the table and cover his hand again. He doesn’t pull away. Our fingers fit like they were waiting.
“Real talk,” I say. “You’re gonna play ball however long it lasts. Me, I’m gonna play music till I can’t hear anymore. Everything else—classes, pressure, parents—that’s noise. And for once, I want the noise to stop.”
He nods slowly. “You sound like you’ve already decided.”
“I have.”
“You’re not scared?”
“I’m terrified,” I admit. “But it’s the right kind of scared.”
He smiles faintly. “The kind that means you’re alive.”
“Exactly.”
The waitress drops off our food—pancakes drowning in syrup for me, a mountain of eggs and toast for him. The smell makes my stomach growl. Ollie notices and laughs again, and just like that, the heaviness lifts.
“You always order like a kid who’s just discovered sugar exists.”
“Hey, don’t shame my joy.” I arch my brow at him.
“I’m not. I’m jealous. My nutritionist would combust if she saw that plate.”
“Then she’s not invited.”
“Thank God.” He forks a bite of eggs. “So, what happens if you get an offer tonight? Like, real offer. Contract, money, tour bus, the works?”
“Then I sign,” I say simply, “and figure the rest out later.”
He watches me over his coffee, eyes unreadable. “So this is really happening.”
“I fucking hope so.” I cut into a pancake, syrup dripping. “I’ve been working toward this since I was fifteen. Garage bands, shitty gigs, endless practice. Then when I met the guys and we got our shit together, I just knew we had what it takes. If someone opens a door, I’m not hesitating.”
He nods slowly, like he’s memorizing every word. “Then I hope they see what I see.”
“What’s that?”
“The real thing.”
I grin. “You gonna make me blush in public?”
“Just returning the favor,” he says, mouth quirking.
