Page 13 of Mending Hearts
He grins like he likes that answer. “You looking forward to the next season?”
The question is so normal it almost knocks me over.
Next season.
Basketball.
Stats. Schedules. Something I know how to control.
My mind is still stuck on the image of Rafe being dragged away down a hallway like we’re characters in a bad dream, but I force my mouth to work anyway. “Yeah,” I say. “Always. I’m… excited.”
Adrian nods, taking a sip of his coffee. “You guys are a machine. I caught a couple of games last season. You’re next level.”
A laugh bubbles out of me—small, polite, reflexive. “Thank you,” I manage. “We try.”
He smiles wider. “That’s the most athlete answer I’ve ever heard.”
I almost believe I’m okay for half a second. Then my brain flashes back to Rafe’s face when he saw me. The way his eyes widened, like he couldn’t decide whether to hope or break. And the world tilts again.
What are the odds that it would be the exact same show Steel Saints were booked for? I wasn’t even booked to appear on the show until last week—when a spot came open, which was ideal since the charity program are chasing PR opportunities. Maybe it’s the universe throwing my decisions back in my face.
A woman with a headset appears—Naomi, I think, though my memory is a scrambled mess.
“Okay, Adrian, Ollie—perfect timing,” she chirps. “We’re ready for you. We’ll take you to stage right.”
“Let’s do it,” Adrian says easily.
My legs move because they have to. Because someone is guiding me forward and momentum is easier than standing still.
I follow Adrian out of the green room, down the hallway that smells like hairspray and warm lights, and keep my thoughts away from where the band went. I don’t let myself picture Rafe sitting somewhere, searching for the exit, heart in his throat, fighting to hold himself together the same way I am.
We reach the stage entrance.
The muffled sound of the audience is there, a low excited hum that seeps through the walls. There’s a monitor showing the set—Cal Hart in his stuffed chair, suit sharp, smile easy, crowd laughing at something he just said.
It’s bright and cheerful. It’s so violently normal, I want to laugh.
A stagehand touches my elbow and clips a mic pack onto my waistband. Another adjusts my collar. A third person speaks into a headset, calling out cues like we’re pieces on a board.
Adrian leans closer. “You sure you’re okay?”
I force a smile. “Yeah.”
He looks like he doesn’t buy it, but the music swells and Naomi gestures with both hands.
“Ready!” she whispers. “In three… two…”
We walk out. The lights hit me like a wall.
The audience claps, loud and immediate, a wave of sound that makes my skin prickle. The set is warm-toned and cozy—big couch, armchair, fake skyline backdrop, the whole “like you’re hanging out in someone’s living room” vibe.
Except living rooms don’t have studio lights and an audience of strangers applauding your existence.
Cal stands, grinning, and the crowd cheers harder. “And tonight,” he’s saying, “we have a lineup that is honestly ridiculous. International superstar band Steel Saints are here, fresh off their best tour yet?—”
The applause spikes again.
My stomach flips.
