Don’t look.
Don’t.
Cal continues, “And we are also joined by the one and only Adrian Vale?—”
Adrian waves like a pro, and the audience screams.
“And,” Cal says, pausing for effect, “we’ve got a man who is basically a walking highlight reel—captain of the Minnesota Eagles, one of the best in the League, Oliver Marshall!”
The clapping hits again, and I do what I’ve done a thousand times. I smile. I lift a hand, nod like I’m grateful but not overwhelmed. Like my world didn’t just detonate backstage.
Cal crosses toward us and shakes Adrian’s hand first, then mine. His grip is firm, his eyes friendly. “Ollie, good to see you, man.”
“Good to see you,” I say, and I hope my voice doesn’t crack.
He gestures toward the couch. “Come on over.”
I turn toward it, and my body tries to stop.
Steel Saints are already seated. All four of them. They take up the big couch like they belong there—Drew lounging back with the confidence of a man who knows the cameras love him, Miles sitting upright and composed, Eli looking like he’s trying to keep his mouth shut and failing.
And at the far end?—
Rafe.
He’s farther away than he has any right to be. Like the couch is an ocean and I’m stranded on the wrong shore.
He looks… unreal. Same gorgeous face that haunts my nights. Same mouth I used to kiss until I forgot my own name. Same dark eyes that used to soften when they found mine.
Now those eyes don’t find mine at all. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tense, hands clasped loosely, ring catching the light on his right hand like a private joke that isn’t funny.
It hurts. More than it should.
It’s a stupid distance, a few feet at most, but it feels like eight years compressed into space. Like the universe is reminding me:You don’t get to have him. Not easily. Not like you want.
All I want to do is stare. To memorize him and talk to him. To somehow rewind time.
But Cal is guiding me, and the audience is watching, and I sit in the empty spot beside Miles because that’s where the producers have decided I belong. Miles turns his head and looks at me like I’m something fascinating and fragile all at once.
His eyes are kind, which makes it worse. “Hey,” he murmurs, low enough that the audience won’t hear it.
“Hey,” I manage.
And then the show starts.
Cal settles into his chair, crosses one leg over the other, and beams at the camera. “All right—welcome back toThe Late Lounge.We’ve got an incredible group here tonight…”
The audience laughs at his opening joke, and I laugh, too, because my body knows how to do this even while my head is screaming.
Steel Saints talk first. Tour wrap. Highlights. Funny stories.
Drew is loud and charming, Miles is dry and smooth, Eli is earnest with sharp humor.
I keep my eyes on Cal and my smile in place. I nod when I’m supposed to. I even manage to throw in a couple of polite laughs at the right moments.
But every time Rafe speaks, my heart constricts.
His voice is the same. A little deeper, maybe. A little more controlled. But it’s him. And it gives me an excuse to look. So I do. Just a glance.