“And,” Eric continues carefully, “it’s customary to bring a date.”
There it is.
I let out a slow breath. “No.”
“Ollie—”
“I’m not doing that,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I’m not interested in pretending I’m dating or starting rumors.”
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” he says. “I’m asking you to consider how it looks.”
“I have considered it,” I reply, more than aware of his thoughts about me being friends with a band who are everywhere right now. But more specifically, friends with Rafe, an openly bisexual man. “And the answer’s still no.”
Eric sighs, but it’s more thoughtful than frustrated. “I figured you’d say that.” Silence stretches for a beat. “There’s flexibility here,” he says eventually. “It doesn’t have to be romantic. It just… can’t be empty.”
I think about Rafe. About the way he fills a room without trying. About how visible he is in ways I’m not allowed to mirror. “If I have to bring someone,” I say slowly, “I’ll ask my sister.”
Eric pauses before saying, “That works.”
It shouldn’t surprise me how easily he accepts it. Family is safe. Family makes sense. Family doesn’t invite questions. It also helps sell a potential brand of me being a good son and big brother.
“Okay,” he adds. “We’ll list it that way. No pressure beyond that.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it.
“We’ll talk more soon,” he says. “You’re doing great, Ollie. Just… stay smart.”
The line goes dead.
A date that isn’t a date. A presence that doesn’t threaten. Another small adjustment to keep the edges smooth. This is temporary. This is just how things work. But the truth presses in anyway: Every choice I make to stay unseen is another place where I leave him behind, even when he’s right beside me in every way that matters.
9
Coach doesn’t lookat me when he says it. That’s how I know it’s real. If he looked, there’d be a crack in it. A check-in. That thing he does when his eyes saydon’t make me regret this. But he doesn’t even glance down the bench. He just lifts his whistle, points like it’s a weapon, and says, “Second unit. Ollie, you’re up.”
No pause. Nolet’s see what you can do. Nokid, you ready?Just—fact. Like my name belongs there.
For half a second, I freeze. Towel still in my hands. Water bottle uncapped. My brain stalls like it’s buffering on bad Wi-Fi.
Then Marco elbows me in the ribs. “About time,” he says, grinning like this is his promotion too. “Try not to embarrass us.”
I snort. “You’re already doing a great job on your own.”
He laughs and gives me a shove toward the court. “Go.”
I drop the towel like it burned me and jog out before Coach can change his mind.
Practice is already loud in that particular League way—organized chaos pretending to be normal. Sneakers shriek against the hardwood. Balls thud in sharp, rhythmic beats. Someone yells, “Ice,” from the weak side. Someone else tells himto shut up. Assistant coaches pace like sharks who smell blood even when there isn’t any.
The air’s thick with sweat and that lemon cleaner they use on the court. It always tries to smell fresh. It never succeeds.
I take my spot at the wing, bouncing lightly on my toes, forcing my shoulders loose.Don’t look eageris my mantra. Eager gets noticed for the wrong reasons.
Marco lines up across from me for a second before switching off. “You good?” he asks quietly, eyes forward.
“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t help me.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
