“Summer League,” I correct automatically.
Jamie laughs. “Man, nobody cares. You made it.”
The second guy, Tal, leans in. “We saw your minutes. You looked good.”
“Thanks,” I say, and the word feels more honest than anything I’ve said all night.
They start talking—about campus, about mutual friends, about how LA still feels like a movie set if you stare too long. They don’t mention Rafe. Not directly. They don’t know he’s anything but the “band guy” I used to hang around with.
And I keep it that way.
But when one of them says, “So, you still talk to that dude? The one with the band? Steel Saints, right?” my heart stutters, and I keep my face steady.
“Yeah,” I say. “Rafe. We’re… friends. Me and the band.”
It’s true. It’s just notenoughtruth.
They nod like that makes sense. “They’re blowing things up. Couldn’t believe when I saw them on a TV interview last month.”
“Yeah,” I say, somewhat lamely, despite how damn proud I was of Rafe and the guys during the interview. And then when they played a set live… honestly, it’s no wonder everyone wants a piece of them.
The conversation rolls on. My teammates drift over, curious, sizing up who I know outside of them. For a few minutes, it feels almost normal.
Then Kirk shows up again, drink in hand, grin lazy. He looks at my friends, looks at me. “Marshall,” he says, “you always this quiet at clubs while everyone else is having a good time? Or you saving your energy for the ladies?”
A couple of guys laugh. Not hard, but enough. And I understand, suddenly, with a clarity that hits like a shove: This is what my life is going to be. A constant balancing act. A constant performance. A constant swallowing of the name that actually matters.
I force a smile. “I’m good,” I say.
Kirk shrugs like he doesn’t care either way. But his eyes linger on me like he’s waiting for me to slip.
Marco appears again like gravity, intercepting. “All right, rook’s not on a mission tonight,” he says. “Back off.”
Kirk scoffs, but he backs off, because Marco’s loud enough to be inconvenient.
I exhale while my friends keep talking, unaware of what nearly surfaced under my skin. They don’t know my ring is hidden under my shirt. They don’t know I’m counting the minutes until I can leave.
By the time we finally head out—stumbling into the humid night air, blinking at the sudden quiet—I feel wrung out in a way the game didn’t do to me.
Coach wanted culture. What he got is a rookie who learned exactly how alone he can be in a room full of people.
The hotel hallwayis too quiet. That’s the first thing I notice. The second thing is the light under my door.
I stop, key card halfway out of my pocket. My pulse spikes, because I’m not expecting anyone. Because I haven’t seen Rafe in ten days, and the last message I got from him said he wasn’t flying back until tomorrow.
I swipe in, and the door clicks open. And there, just inside the entryway, like the answer to a prayer I didn’t let myself say out loud, is a pair of worn black Converse, tossed carelessly on the carpet.
My chest caves in with relief so sharp it almost hurts.
I shut the door quietly behind me and just stand there for a second, staring at the shoes like they might disappear if I blink. Then I move, fast and silent, shedding my jacket, toeing off my own shoes, walking deeper into the room like I’m stepping into a different life.
The bedside lamp is on low. The curtains are half drawn. The bed is a mess of sheets and a familiar body, curled on his side like he fell into sleep mid-thought. Rafe. His hair’s a wreck, his tattooed forearm flung across the pillow, and his mouth’s parted slightly. He’s asleep, and holy shit, he’s here.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way my whole system calms down at the sight of him—like my bones recognize home before my brain does.
I strip quietly. Shirt, jeans, socks. The leather cord comes over my head, and for a second, the ring rests in my palm. I stare at it, slide it off, and place it on my finger. Rightness settles in my chest. One day it can stay here always, but for now, these stolen private moments will have to do.
I crawl into bed behind him. The mattress dips, and Rafe stirs, making a soft sound that isn’t a word. I press a kiss to the back of his neck, right where his skin is warmest.
