Rafe: You good?
Me: I will be.
The second pick goes. Another name. Another table. Another family celebrating.
Then it’s the Monarchs.
LA.
The graphic shows their logo. The crown. Their record last year. The wordsNeeds: interior defense, leadership, half-court scoringflash across the screen.
The commentators talk over highlights—mine this time. Blocks. Put-backs. High-low feeds. Me shouting in a huddle, clapping my teammates on the shoulders. Wearing the Panthers jersey one last time, in that game where everything clicked and the arena felt too small to hold the noise.
“He’s a culture guy,” one analyst says. “You bring in Oliver Marshall, you’re telling your locker room this is how we do things.”
“He’s also coming out a year early,” the other counters. “Could’ve stayed and finished his senior season. His parents aren’t thrilled from what I hear.”
I flinch internally. I shouldn’t be surprised that got out. Nothing stays private when enough people dig.
My mother’s nails press into my suit pant leg for a second, then release.
I knew they weren’t happy when I told them I’d overloaded my classes to graduate this spring instead of next. I knew it when my father told me that “real commitment” meant seeing things through in the right order: degree, job, maybe pro ball if I insisted on chasing “the phase.” I knew it when my mother said, “We’ll spin it,” like my life was a press release.
They didn’t yell. My parents don’t yell. But the disappointment was there, humming.
When I told Rafe, my voice shook. I’d gone to his place straight from my advisor’s office, clutching the confirmation letter like proof that I was allowed to choose something for myself.
He’d taken one look at me, plucked the paper out of my hand, read it, and grinned so wide I thought his face might split.
“You did it,” he’d said. “Holy shit, Ollie. You did it.”
“You’re not… mad?” I’d asked. The echo of my father’s lectures was still buzzing around my skull.
He’d stared at me like I’d grown an extra head. “Mad? You’re chasing the life you want. I’mproudof you.”
He’d been the first person to say that.
He texts it a lot now. Hell, he has since the moment we met. I read the word so often that sometimes it feels like a shield.
The commissioner walks back to the podium, card in hand.
My heart rate jumps. I force my face calm.
If it’s not me, it’s not me. I’ll adjust. I always do.
But if it is…
I think of Rafe’s hands on my face, his voice hoarse as he told me in the dark, “Whatever city you end up in, I’ll meet you there if I have to sell my guitar to do it.”
Please,I think.Let him meet me at home.
“With the third pick in the draft,” the commissioner announces, “the Los Angeles Monarchs select…”
There’s a half second of silence where it feels like the whole arena is holding its breath.
“…Oliver Marshall, center, University of California Panthers.”
The world tilts.
