“I like this version of you,” I tell him.
He studies me. “Yeah?”
“You’re calmer.”
“I’m exhausted,” he says dryly.
“Not that. You’re… steadier.”
He considers it. “Therapy,” he says finally. “And I’m not pretending anymore.”
I nod. “That helps.”
“And you?” he asks. “You’re different too.”
“How?”
“You don’t flare as fast.”
That one hits.
“Rehab,” I say quietly. “And not wanting to wake up hating myself.”
He reaches across the table without thinking, brushing his fingers against mine.
The contact is small and intentional.
We leave as the dinner crowd starts filtering in. Outside, the cold has deepened, sky fading toward navy.
Back in the car, the city feels quieter.
Ollie watches me drive for a while.
“What?” I ask eventually.
“You look happy.”
I think about that longer than I expect to.
“I am,” I admit. It feels dangerous to say it out loud, but it’s true.
“Me too,” he says.
We pull up outside his place. Before he gets out, he leans across the console and kisses me. It’s not heated or urgent. Tenderness and certainty is in every touch.
When he pulls back, he smiles, steps out into the cold, and I watch him walk toward the driver’s door. His smile stretches when he opens it for me, and he holds out his hand.
I snort and shake my head but take it willingly. We head toward the building, cameras still hovering at the perimeter, while I’m wearing a shit-eating grin.
21
OLLIE
The arena feels different tonight.It isn’t just louder. It’s charged.
I’ve played in this building for years. I know its rhythms—when the crowd swells, when it settles, how it sounds when we’re down by ten and how it sounds when we’re on a run. I know the echo of the national anthem in the rafters and the way the bass from the pregame music vibrates faintly through the hardwood.
But tonight there’s something else in the air. Something watchful.
