She smirks. “You have zero dating life.”
I choke on my water. “Excuse you?”
She gestures at the screen. “I’m just saying. I’ve been here three days, and you haven’t so much as flirted with the barista.”
“I don’t flirt,” I say.
“You’re a musician,” she counters. “That’s a lie.”
I scoff. “I’m also tired. And sober.”
She rolls her eyes. “Those things don’t cancel out attraction.”
I don’t answer. The truth is ugly and complicated, and I don’t want to unpack it out loud.
I’ve tried. Over the years, I’ve tried to move on. To prove—to myself more than anyone—that I wasn’t stuck in amber, that my life didn’t end when Ollie walked away.
There were a few almosts. A few kisses that felt wrong the second mouths touched. One night when I went further—far enough to finish, far enough to immediately feel sick with guilt, like I’d betrayed a vow no one but me remembered taking.
I haven’t tried since, because I’m married. Estranged, abandoned, functionally alone—but still married. And seeing Ollie again cracked something open that I’d worked very hard to keep sealed.
Is it a sign, or is it just the universe being cruelly efficient?
The second quarter starts, and the Eagles—Ollie’s team—pull ahead. He’s everywhere. Defense, offense, leadership bleeding into every possession.
“Damn,” Rosa says. “He’s carrying them.”
“He always does,” I reply softly.
Midway through the third quarter, he makes a drive to the basket. There’s contact. A stumble he recovers from too quickly. I lean forward without realizing it. Ollie shakes out his shoulder as he jogs back down the court, and my stomach drops.
The commentators catch it a beat later. “Looks like Marshall took a hit there—shoulder might be bothering him.”
“Probably lingering from last season,” the other adds. “He’s tough, though. We’ve seen him play through worse.”
I don’t like the way that sentence sits.
On the next possession, Ollie grimaces as he reaches up for a rebound. He lands hard, rolls his shoulder again.
Rosa frowns. “That doesn’t look great.”
“No,” I agree, tension coiling tight behind my ribs. “It doesn’t.”
A trainer approaches. Ollie waves him off, and he stays in and plays on. And somehow—because he’s Ollie Marshall—he stilldelivers. Still hits his shots. Still commands the floor like pain is just another thing he refuses to acknowledge.
I hate it. I hate that he’s hurting and that I can’t do anything about it. I fucking hate that my first instinct is to reach for my phone.
I don’t.
Because I’ve already crossed one line. Because I told him I couldn’t. Reaching out now would be selfish, born from fear instead of care. If I open that door even a crack, I don’t know if I can close it again.
Rosa watches me watch him, her attention shifting from the screen to me with unnerving precision. “You’re still in love with him,” she says.
The words feel like a slap. I turn to her so fast I nearly pull something. “What?”
She blinks, clearly not expecting that reaction. “Jesus, Rafe.”
“How—” My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. “How the fuck do you know?”
