“Early next year,” he says. “Spring, most likely.”
Soon enough to feel real. Far enough away to pretend it’s manageable.
I keep my voice steady. “That’s… not that far off.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
We sit with it for a moment. The room is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside. Rafe’s thumb traces idle circles against my wrist, like he’s anchoring himself to something solid.
“I wanted to tell you when we were alone,” he says. “Didn’t want this to be a public thing.”
“I’m glad,” I admit. “I like being able to touch you when you say things like that.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah. Me too.”
I brush my thumb along his jaw, grounding myself the same way. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, even as my brain starts doing math I don’t want to acknowledge. “Schedules. Flights. All of it.”
He nods, but there’s something thoughtful in his eyes now. “We always do.”
The familiar words land heavier than they should. I look down at him, really look—at the lines fatigue has etched into his face, at the quiet excitement he’s trying not to let turn into fear. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. Then, more honestly, he adds, “I think so.”
I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, lingering. “I really am proud of you,” I repeat. “I don’t want you to ever doubt that.”
He closes his eyes again, a soft sound leaving him. “I don’t.”
But as he settles back into me, I can feel the shape of what’s coming already forming between us. The distance. The planning. The way love keeps having to make room for ambition.
For now, though, he’s here. And I hold him like that’s enough.
The event isn’t big,but it’s important. That distinction matters more now than it ever did in college. Summer League was loud and obvious, all sharp edges and desperate energy. Preseason is quieter. It’s more polished and less forgiving.
This is where they decide who stays.
It’s a sponsor dinner held in a hotel ballroom just off downtown, the kind of space designed to feel intimate without actually being personal. Round tables, linen napkins, soft lighting that makes everyone look a little better than they feel. Logos are projected subtly onto one wall. There are no banners or trophies. Instead, it’s all money and expectation dressed up as hospitality.
Unfortunately, it’s an environment I spent so much of my teenage years in before I was able to escape for college.
I arrive alone, telling myself it’s fine—logical, even expected. Rafe has rehearsal tonight, and even if he didn’t, this isn’t his world. It’s easier this way, at least on the surface. Still, his absence feels louder than the room itself.
Marco spots me almost immediately. He lifts a hand in greeting, a relaxed smile on his face, like he’s relieved to seesomeone familiar. That alone tells me something. Marco isn’t a star. He’s not fighting for his life either, but he’s close enough to the edge that every impression still matters to him.
“Ollie,” he says when I reach him. “You clean up nice.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I reply. “This is a special occasion.”
He laughs. “Preseason’s basically one long special occasion.”
He’s not wrong. Preseason starts next week. Not exhibition in the casual sense—these games count in ways the box score never shows. Coach will use them to test rotations, to see who communicates under pressure, who gets lost when plays break down, who can execute without forcing things.
We’ve got four preseason games before the real season starts. Four chances to prove we’re worth keeping when the stakes stop being theoretical. After that, the roster tightens, minutes shorten, and excuses disappear.
I don’t say any of that out loud. Marco already knows. Everyone here does.
A team liaison approaches with two drinks and hands me one automatically. I thank her and set it on the table untouched.
Marco notices and smirks. “Smart,” he says. “These things are always a trap.”
