Chapter One
Jordan's POV
The sound of a basketball hitting hardwood is basically my heartbeat at this point. Swish. That’s the rhythm. Clank. That’s the sound of me needing to stay another thirty minutes because I refuse to end on a miss.
I was alone in the Rebellions’ practice facility, the overhead lights humming like they were tired of watching me move. My teammates had cleared out an hour ago.
If Luke, Bash or Alex were here they would tell me I was working too hard. Bit of a pot meet kettle as they work just as hard in their fields.
Now they were all in love and had actual lives outside of sports and dance.
Luke and his partner Gabe (The Shark as I like to call him) were probably headed straight to some overpriced vegan spot where the water costs ten dollars, and honestly? Good for them. They’re so deeply in the “newlywed energy” phase that I’m pretty sure they share a single soul at this point.
Then there’s the twins.
Living with Sebastian and his partner Oliver is... an experience. Don’t get me wrong, I love them. Bash is my brother in every way that counts, and Oliver is the calm to his storm, but being the third wheel in that house has become a full-time job I didn’t apply for.
I walked into the kitchen yesterday and they were doing that thing where they just stare at each other over coffee without speaking. I just turned around and walked back out. My stomach can’t handle that much sweetness before 9:00 AM.
And Alex? Well, Alex is officially a resident of the Thorne Fortress now. Every time I see him, he looks like he’s glowing, and Leo (the Grizzly himself) actually smiled at me the other day. It was terrifying. Like seeing a shark do a magic trick.
So, here I am. Jordan Hayes: the last single man standing. The full-time third wheel. The guy who lives in a house filled with engagement rings and matching bathrobes while I’m over here having a committed relationship with a basketball.
I bounce the ball between my legs, feeling the familiar burn in my calves. I’m 6′3", which makes me a giant in the real world, but a “scrappy guard” in this one. I take a deep breath, launched into a jump shot, and watched the ball arc toward the rafters.
Swish.
"Yeah, you still got it, J," I mutter to the empty gym. "Who needs a soulmate when you have a forty-inch vertical?"
I grab the ball as it bounces, spinning it on my index finger. The truth was, the house was feeling a lot smaller lately. The silence in the gym was better than the isolation at home.
But even the gym couldn’t keep my mind off the fact that I was twenty-five, at the peak of my career, and the most exciting thing I’d done this week was organize my sneaker closet by color.
I needed a drink. I needed a crowd. And I definitely needed to be in a room where nobody was planning a wedding.
"Alright," I say, tucking the ball under my arm and heading for the showers. "I’m going out. Try not to miss me too much."
Yeah, I talk to the stadium. Is that so wrong?
I had a specific spot in mind. A club downtown where the lights are low, the bass is heavy, and the only thing people are looking for is a good time.
Alex used to go there with me back when he was still playing the scene, before he traded his secrets for a hockey coach.
I figured if it was good enough for a Cole twin to find trouble, it was definitely good enough for me.
I laugh as I step out of the shower, balancing the phone between my shoulder and my ear while I tried to towel off. The humidity of the locker room was doing wonders for my blond curls, but less for my phone’s grip.
"Toenails, Alex? Really?" I grin, shaking my head. I could practically see it. Alex sitting on a velvet ottoman while a teenage girl treated his feet like a canvas. "What color we talking? Pink, Purple, red or blue?"
"It’s actually a midnight blue," Alex’s voice came through, sounding remarkably calm for a man currently being pampered by a fifteen-year-old. "And Amber says if you keep laughing, she’ll make sure your pedicure is next."
"Hey! Tell her I have a reputation to uphold. I’m a Shooting Guard, not a hand model," I joke, though let’s be real, my hands are one of my best features. Long, elegant, and great at ball control. "But seriously, man, give me thirty minutes. I’m heading to The Obsidian. I need a break from Bash and Oliver and the constant aura of domestic bliss that’s currently haunting the house."
"Is Bash still staring into Oliver’s eyes like he’s trying to solve a complex math equation?" Alex teases.
"It’s worse. They’ve started finishing each other’s sentences about laundry detergent. I can’t live like this, Alex. I’m a young man in my prime. I should be out making mistakes, not helping them choose between ‘Mountain Spring’ and ‘Lavender Breeze’."
Alex chuckles. "Go. I’ll meet you there in thirty. Once the topcoat is dry."
I hung up, feeling a bit better. At least I’d have one of the twins to help me navigate the night. I dressed quickly black slim-fit jeans that showed off the fact that I never skip leg day, and a tailored cream-colored shirt that brought out the golden tones in my skin. I checked my hair in the mirror, giving the curls a quick shake.
Approachable? Check. Approaching the peak of boredom? Also check.
The Obsidian was exactly what I needed. As I walked in, the bass hit me first a deep, rhythmic thrum that vibrated in my sternum and drowned out the internal monologue of my roommates’ wedding plans. The lighting was a moody mix of deep purples and shadows, making everyone look like a better version of themselves.
I head for the bar, my eyes scanning the room out of habit. I’m always moving, bouncing on the balls of my feet, shifting my weight, a nervous energy that usually serves me well on the court but makes me look like I’ve had three too many espressos in a social setting.
I order a bourbon and turn around, leaning my elbows against the polished wood of the bar to survey the crowd.
That’s when I saw him.
In a quiet corner booth, far away from the flashing strobes and the sweaty bodies on the dance floor, sat a man who looked like he had been carved out of mahogany. He was broad, like, ‘heavyweight-boxer’ broad with shoulders that seemed to take up the entire booth. He was dressed in a dark, fitted jacket that looked expensive but didn’t scream for attention.
He wasn’t dancing. He wasn’t talking. He was just... sitting there.
He held a glass of something dark, his dark espresso-brown eyes moving slowly over the room. He looked like he was watching a movie that only he understood. While everyone else was frantic, he was completely still.
It was the most captivating thing I’d ever seen.
I’m the guy who can’t sit still for five seconds. I’m the guy who spins a basketball on his finger during team meetings just to stay sane. And here was this guy, sitting in the middle of a literal riot of sound and light, looking like the eye of the storm.
I take a sip of my bourbon, my gaze lingering a second too long. I felt that familiar itch to move, to go over there, to find out what someone that composed was doing in a place like this.
But for once, I didn’t move. I just watch him, wondering if he was waiting for someone, or if he just enjoyed being the most powerful-looking person in a room full of people trying too hard.
"Who are you looking at?" a voice whispers in my ear.
I jump, nearly splashing my drink. It was Alex, looking effortlessly chic and, yes, his toes were probably impeccable.
"Jesus, Alex! Don’t do that," I hiss, trying to regain my ‘cool guy’ composure. I gesture subtly with my glass toward the corner. "The guy in the booth. Look at the stillness on him. It’s... it’s kind of intimidating."
Alex follows my gaze, his eyebrows arching. "Oh. That’s Malik Carter. He’s here almost every Friday. He doesn’t usually talk to anyone. He just... observes."
"Malik," I repeat the name, the sound of it feeling heavy. "Suits him."
"It does," Alex says with a smirk. "Want to go say hi? Or are you going to keep bouncing on your toes like you’re waiting for a whistle?"
"He isn’t my type," I say, though the way my pulse was currently thrumming against my ribs made me a huge liar. There was something about the sheer scale of the man. The mountain of muscle in that corner booth, that made my own 6′3" frame feel suddenly very wiry and very accessible.
"Liar," Alex sings, and I wince. "Wow. That was very off-key, even for a dancer."
"I am here with you," I argue, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "A 'Joxander’ night. No distractions."
Alex huffs adjust his sleeve and give me that look, the one that said he knew exactly how much I was struggling to keep my eyes off the corner. "Fine," he mutters. "But after a couple of drinks, I am going to try and persuade you again. You’ve been living in a house with Bash and Oliver for months, Jordan. You’re practically vibrating with pent-up energy. It’s making me tired just watching you."
I chuckle, leading him toward a small high-top table that gave us some semblance of privacy but still kept us in the thick of the music. "I know you will. And for the record, it’s not just energy. It’s survival. If I hear them having sex one more time, I might actually lose my mind."
For the next forty-five minutes, the world outside The Obsidian actually managed to stay outside. We caught up properly. Since Alex moved into Leo’s “Fortress,” our group chats had stayed active, but the face-to-face time had taken a hit. I told him about the Rebellions’ new defensive plays, and he told me about the transition from the Academy to the more permanent reality of being Amber’s “bonus dad” while navigating Leo’s intensity.
"It’s good, Jordan," Alex says, his voice softening as he leans in. "Really good. It’s terrifying how much I love them both."
"I can tell. You’ve got that glow. It’s disgusting," I joke, though I meant it. Seeing Alex, this settled this seen made the hollow spot in my chest itch just a little bit more.
"You’ll get there," Alex says, reaching out to pat my hand. "Just stop looking for ‘perfect’ and start looking for whatever makes you stand still."
"I don’t stand still, Alex. It’s not in the DNA."
"We’ll see." Alex drains the last of his drink and stands up. "I need the bathroom. Don’t start any fights or get married while I’m gone."
I watch him disappear into the crowd, my thumb tracing the rim of my glass. Left to my own devices for more than ten seconds, my “constant motion” kicked back in. I shift in my seat, my knee bouncing under the table. My eyes, betraying me as they always do, slid back toward the corner booth.
Malik wasn’t looking at me anymore.
His espresso-dark eyes were swarming over the club, moving with that same predatory, heavy calm. He looked like a king assessing his subjects, or maybe a predator deciding if the local wildlife was worth the effort.
A sharp pang of annoyance hit me, followed by a sudden realization. Malik had seen me come in. He’d seen me standing at the bar with Alex, laughing, leaning in close to hear him over the music. From a distance, in a place like this, we probably looked exactly like a couple.
He thinks I’m on a date, I thought, my heart doing a weird, irregular hop.
The thought should have made me relieved. It gave me an excuse to stay in my lane. Instead, it made me want to jump onto the table and yell that Alex was basically my brother and that his toes were painted midnight blue because of a fifteen-year-old.
I look back at Malik. He was taking a slow sip of his drink, his gaze passing right over my table without stopping. I felt a sudden, irrational need to be noticed by the eye of the storm. I lean back, stretching my long legs out, trying to look as “single and available” as one can look while sitting at a table for two.
I was 25. I was a professional athlete. I could get anyone in here. And that isn't me being cocky. People loved fucking famous athletes. But yet here I was desperate for his eyes on me.
I wait for him to look back. I wait for that intense, still gaze to lock onto mine again, just so I could prove I wasn’t intimidated.
He didn’t. He just kept observing, and I just kept moving.
