Breaking Strings (Chords & Courts Book 1) by Becca Seymour

Author:Becca Seymour [Seymour, Becca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rainbow Tree Publishing
Published: 2026-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

The week that follows is a blur of sweat, strings, and sneaked moments I shouldn’t want as much as I do. Busy doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m either in class, grinding through assignments I barely care about, slinging lattes at the café until my brain’s soaked in espresso steam, or rehearsing with the guys. If I’m not doing one of those things, I’m finding a way to wedge myself into Ollie’s insane schedule.

And he’s just as bad. In fact, his schedule is worse. Mornings in the weight room, afternoons on the court, nights reviewing plays or pretending to study. Yet somehow he still shows up. For me. For this.

We don’t call it anything. Not dating. Not together. Just two people orbiting closer than we should. Sometimes it’s a couple of hours hidden in the practice room, guitars in our laps, voices tangling in chords until the world outside disappears. Occasionally it’s him knocking on my apartment door at midnight, Drew blinking blearily before disappearing into his room, leaving us alone on the couch with whatever’s on TV as an excuse. Sometimes it’s just coffee after his team meetings, sitting shoulder to shoulder while we talk about nothing and everything.

It’s not enough, and it’s too much all at once.

He’s still Ollie: steady, careful, cautious as hell. He doesn’t touch me in public. Doesn’t let his mask slip. But in private? He laughs easier. Smiles more. And when he lets himself lean against me, or when his eyes soften mid-song, it’s like he’s giving me pieces nobody else gets to see. I’m addicted to those cracks, even when they’re torture.

Tonight, it’s just us and Drew—who’s sprawled in his room with headphones on, the faint sound of his guitar bleeding through the wall—and Ollie and I are camped in the living room. Guitars across our laps, sheets of scribbled lyrics scattered across the coffee table, and two mugs of coffee going cold beside them.

Ollie’s bent over his acoustic, brow furrowed, working through a progression I showed him earlier. The sound is clean, steady, patient—very him. He hates when he misses a chord, frowns like the world’s ending, then goes back to nail it again. Watching him, I almost forget to keep writing.

Almost.

My pen scratches across the paper, words spilling out like they have every time I’ve been around him since that night. He lit a fire under me, and I can’t stop feeding it. My notebook’s filling with songs that wouldn’t exist if not for him. Dark eyes. Red flushes. The kind of restraint that makes you want to rip it open just to see what’s underneath.

My phone buzzes against the couch cushion, jolting me. Unknown number. I glance at it, ready to ignore it like I always do, but something makes me swipe.

“Hello?”

“Is this Rafael?” The voice is male, older but not ancient, with the casual briskness of someone who spends too much time on the phone.

“Yeah. Who’s asking?”

“This is Carl, manager over at The Lantern. You and your band sent a demo a while back?”

For a second, my brain blanks.

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