1
Everything’s about to change.And I can’t wait.
It’s the first clear thought I have.
Not about the cameras. Not about the lights. Not about the fact that there’s an entire arena full of people, and millions more watching at home. Just that: the feeling I’ve been holding in my chest since March, since Vegas, since a hotel chapel and a guitar-string ring and a man with ink on his fingers sayingI love you.
Now I’m here.
League Draft. Green room. Front-facing table. My parents on either side of me. My agent, Eric, one seat down, scrolling on his phone with all the calm of a man who’s already seen the script.
They all look ready.
I don’t think anyone could be ready for this.
“Oliver, your tie,” my mother says quietly, reaching over to smooth the knot even though it’s already straight. Her fingers are light on the silk, her movements controlled. She’s in navy—of course she is—with pearls and a smile she’s been practicing for political fundraisers since before I was born.
“Looks fine,” my father says, not looking up from the program in his hands. He’s not actually reading it. He’s seen every mock draft, every projection. He knows where they haveme slotted: top three, sometimes first. The phrasefranchise cornerstonehas been used a few times on TV. He pretends he doesn’t track every word.
His jaw is tight. It has been for weeks.
I sit very still, hands relaxed on my thighs, shoulders back. I can feel the cameras roving. They want emotion—tears, cheers, something they can replay in slow motion over inspirational music later. They won’t get that from me. That’s not my job, not here.
My job is to look in control. Grateful. Confident.
Golden.
My leg wants to bounce, but I don’t let it. Instead, a pang hits my chest. If Rafe were here, he’d trail his fingers across the nape of my neck in a motion that shouldn’t feel as soothing as it does. I take a steady breath and nod at Cory Roach, a power forward from Nevada, as he passes by.
They’ve put all of us—projected lottery—at a curved row of tables, each with a little nameplate and a bottle of water with the League logo. The floor is crowded with reporters, boom mics, photographers. There’s a low roar of conversation under the announcer’s voice as he introduces the event, sponsors, the endless preamble.
I hear my name more than once.
“Best big in the class,” someone says behind me, voice a little too loud. “Instant impact.”
“Kid’s a leader,” another answers. “Coaches rave about him.”
My spine goes straighter. I breathe slowly through my nose.
I’ve been hearing variations of that for months. Years. Before that, it was “a coach’s dream.” “Disciplined.” “Mature beyond his years.”
I wonder what they’d say if they knew there’s a ring threaded onto a leather cord in the pocket of this suit jacket. That somewhere in this city, watching the same broadcast, there’s aman in a worn band tee and messy curls who is legally my husband.
My phone vibrates once against my leg.
My father’s head turns a fraction. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the disapproval tighten the air between us. My mother’s smile doesn’t move.
I slip a hand into my pocket and pull the phone up under the edge of the table, angled away from cameras.
One new message.
Rafe: You breathing?
I exhale. Some of the tension in my shoulders breaks.
I can picture him in the hotel room we booked for him under a fake name, a place we get to be totally alone after this is over and done with. I see him sprawled on the bed, hair damp from a rushed shower, eyes on the screen, biting his lower lip the way he does when he’s trying not to yell.
Me: Yeah. Sort of.
