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SYDNEY MARIE WARREN rarely remembers her dreams. But when her brother inhospitably awakens her, banging on her bedroom door early on a Sunday morning, Sydney imagines she was dreaming about being an only child.

“ What ?” she snarls.

“I’m coming in,” he says.

Sydney throws the first thing she can reach at him—her jeans from the night before with the belt still threaded through the belt loops.

Contact.

“Ow, fuck.”

The belt buckle nearly hits her face when he throws them back at her.

“Swear to God, Devo,” she hisses, shoving away the denim and pulling the quilt over her head. “I will end you.”

“You say that a lot for someone who struggles to open heavy doors sometimes.”

“I got back at 4:00 a.m. Go away .”

“Okay, fine. But have you been checking your socials?”

Her jaw pops with a yawn. “You know we didn’t bring our phones with us.”

Sydney, Rex, and Sky—Red Right Hand’s bassist and drummer—had been holed up working on their next album for the past three days. It had been a productive seventy-two hours but terrible for her sleep hygiene.

“You might want to find your phone.”

She deigns to peek out of her blanket burrito at him. “What? Why?”

“Do you know a Matthews underscore 72?”

“A who?”

“On TikTok. And IG. Matthews underscore 72.”

Sydney blinks blearily at him.

“A bunch of professional athletes are using one of your songs. It started with NHL players and then soccer and football players picked it up, then rugby folks…” Devo waves a hand. “Now it’s trending as a sound. Your Spotify hits are way up. And Rex just texted me a mostly incomprehensible paragraph, but it had a bunch of dollar sign emojis in it.”

“Well, shit. What song?”

“‘A Prayer for Arson.’” He proffers his phone’s screen like that will mean anything to her before she puts her contacts in. “Looks like this Matthews underscore 72 guy was the first to use it. He plays for the Hell Hounds.”

“Matts,” she realizes.

“Hm?”

“I…might know who that is.”

“Why are you making that face?”

“I’m not making a face.”

“I’ve had the displeasure of looking at you daily for two decades. I’ve seen you more than you’ve seen you, and I promise; you’re making a face.”

“Fuck off.” Sydney reaches for the jeans again, and he holds up a placating hand.

“Easy, Syd Vicious. So how do you know this Matthews guy?”

“I don’t.” She army-crawls to the side of the bed. “I talked to him for ten minutes at a party a week ago.”

“Well.” He wiggles the phone at her. “Clearly you made an impression.”

“Give me that.”

She nearly pulls the drawer out of her nightstand searching for her glasses, jams them on her face, and snags the phone out of Devo’s hand.

It is Matts.

Sydney doesn’t recognize him at first. Because there’s nothing of the awkward, if endearing, man she met at the party to recognize. The man in the video wearing the number 72 on his back is brash and fast and elegant and undeniably, confidently, physical—throwing himself after the puck and into fights, screaming for his victories and shouting obscenities at his opponents as refs push him toward the box. But in the close-up footage of him licking his blood-smeared lips, grinning, it’s undeniably Matts. Just a very different Matts than the one Sydney met.

The way he’s synched up the video footage of his goals and fights to her music, to her voice , is… It makes the song feel as if it’s something bigger than it is. Like something more than just words and sound.

“Good, huh?” Devo says.

She plays it again.

Matts is sort of beautiful in his element. Even with his sweaty too-close-to-a-mullet-for-comfort hair in his face; even with blood in his teeth.

“It is.”

Devo sits on the bed, and Sydney’s too preoccupied playing the video a third time to hit him about it.

“The football and basketball players’ versions are getting the most traction, but Matthews is the one who started it. And frankly, his is the best I’ve seen. I take it you didn’t ask him for some free publicity?”

“No. I mentioned the band’s name, but he hadn’t heard of us before.”

“You have his number?”

“No.”

“Might want to get it and thank him. Posting that was a small thing for him, but shit like this makes a difference for us.”

“You know you’re not actually our manager,” Sydney mutters, starting it over again.

“Until you hire a real one, I’m the best you’ve got. Speaking of, we need to talk about the spring tour set list.”

“No. Please. Just let me sleep for a few more hours. I can’t be a person yet. Please .”

“All right, fine. You’re gonna need to stop watching that if you’re planning to sleep though.”

He has a point. She drops the phone into his waiting hands.

He pockets it and stands, then cups the back of her head so he can press an obnoxious, wet kiss to her forehead before she can lean away.

“Sleep well, baby rock star.”

“End you,” she mutters, flopping over. “And shut the damn door!”

*

SYDNEY WAKES UP four hours later feeling vaguely human again.

She locates her dead phone in the tangle of her duvet, nearly falls off the bed reaching for the cord to plug it in, and then lays there waiting until it revives. She finds Matthews’s IG profile and watches the video a few times, volume low. Sydney follows him before she can overthink it. She texts Eli.

You free later? I want to talk about Justin Matthews.

Her phone rings.

“What did he do?” Eli asks in lieu of saying hello. “He’s a work in progress, but I swear he’s decent underneath the two decades of unchecked patriarchal nonsense.”

“No—” Sydney clears her throat, voice raspy from disuse, and tries again. “No, he didn’t do anything bad. He used one of our songs in his short-form posts, and it’s blown up.”

“Oh. Yeah. You know, he put real effort into that video. You should feel honored.”

“I kind of am. What’s his deal?”

Eli is suspiciously silent.

“What do you mean?” he hedges.

“Just—he’s a weird one.”

“You have no idea,” Eli mutters. “He’s basically living with me right now while the team is on their road trip. And I thought Alex was bad, but this boy’s dietary habits are—”

There’s a muffled shout in the background.

“Yes, I’m talking about you,” Eli yells back. “No, that’s not— Honey, I’m from Alabama; I won’t judge you for ketchup on scrambled eggs, but what you do to toast is a war crime.”

“Oh,” Syd says. “He’s there?”

“Mm. Constantly, these days. It’s nice to have company, though, with Alex gone.” Eli raises his voice again. “Except when said company rearranges your spice cabinet!”

The muffled voice—apparently Matthews—tries to argue, but Eli cuts him off.

“No, all spices should not be organized alphabetically. Go back to your puzzle, and let me talk to Syd.”

Matts’s voice suddenly goes quiet. He’s still speaking, but Sydney can barely hear him.

“Yes, Sydney from the party,” Eli says. “Well, I don’t know. Do you want to talk to her? Uh-huh.” His tone shifts, speaking to Syd again. “Sorry about that. Matts says hi, I think.”

“You think?”

“It was implied. Anyway, what did you want to talk about?”

“Well, I wanted to talk about him, but that seems rude if he’s right there. I guess I just wanted to see if he’s good people.”

“He is. Or trying to be, at least.”

“Aren’t we all. Okay. Can you send me his number? Provided he’s okay with that.”

“I…can…” It sounds like Eli wants to say a lot more.

“Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking. The band wants to invite him to the cookout this weekend. To say thanks.”

They probably do; it’s not like she’s outright lying. “You’re still planning to come, right?”

“As if I would deny Hawk a chance to see her beloved.”

Hawk is absolutely infatuated with their livestock dog, Boogie. Boogie tolerates Hawk, which is apparently all she requires to feed said infatuation.

“You think Matts will come?” Syd asks.

Eli sighs. “He’s been playing your album nonstop for the last three days straight. He’ll be there if you invite him.”

Matts’s muffled voice in the background interrupts her response.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eli answers him brightly. “Was that supposed to be a secret? Well, how was I supposed to know that your music preferences were suddenly confidential information? Listen, Syd wants me to send her your number so you can be friends, is that—? Lovely.”

Sydney laughs into her pillow.

“All right, Syd,” Eli says. “I’m texting it to you now. See you Saturday.”

“Mm. Thanks.”

Syd knows if she doesn’t do it now, she’ll take twenty minutes to rewrite it a dozen times later. So as soon as Eli sends Matts’s number, she opens a new conversation:

Hey this is Sydney. Are you in town this weekend?

Hi. This is Matts. He answers immediately.

And then:

You already knew that.

And again:

Yes, I’m in town.

Syd sends her address. The band wants to thank you in person for the free publicity. Come to the cookout at my folks’ place on Saturday.

Is that an invitation or a command?

Sydney thinks it over, then: 11am start, but food is served at 12:30. Don’t be late.

What’s late? After 11 or after 12:30?

Sydney considers answering and then decides against it because that’s funnier. If he really needs to know, Eli can tell him.

She tosses her phone to the side and rolls onto her back, stretching.

It’s always strange to come back to her bedroom at her parents’ house after time away—like stepping into a time capsule that was never buried, all the different eras of her childhood mingled together. The glow-in-the-dark stars have been on the ceiling since she was eleven. The rock and metal posters papering the walls were accumulated over a decade of preteen and teenage angst. Her first and second guitars hang in a place of honor over the desk where she wrote her first song. Tickets and receipts and postcards cover her door: memories, good and bad.

The first memento Sydney taped to the door at ten years old is still there, front and center: a receipt from a gas station in Mississippi for a bag of candy and chocolate milk. The bravest, stupidest decision she ever made.

Her eyes linger on the sticker-covered lamp. On the milk crate full of sports medals and 4H ribbons. Lying in a childhood bedroom, still uncertain about what adulthood means, provokes a strange sort of nostalgia. Sydney doesn’t want to go back, exactly, but the glow-in-the-dark stars and the ticket stubs remind her that those parts of her never left. She’s twenty now, but she still houses her sixteen- and twelve- and six-year-old selves.

There’s probably a song in that somewhere.

Sydney doesn’t have a chance to feel out the possibility, though, because the distinct sound of Rex’s motorcycle clatters into the yard and stops to idle, likely on purpose right in front of her window. She resigns herself to not going back to sleep.

“Syd,” Rex yells from the hall a minute later, the front door slamming behind him. “If we’re awake, you can be awake. Team meeting in five.”

She goes in search of pants.

The landline is ringing when she squints her way into the kitchen five and a half minutes later, but none of the occupants—Devo at the stove, Rex standing in the open refrigerator sniffing something, Sky face down on the table—appear interested in answering it.

She snags the phone from the cradle on her way to collapse in a chair next to Sky.

“Ninth circle of hell, Judas speaking.”

“What, Satan’s busy?” her mom asks.

Sydney glances at Devo. “He’s making eggs. Can I take a message?”

“Be nice to your brother,” her mom says, more habit than anything. “And tell him to move fixing the back pasture fence up on his to-do list. The section by the creek is going to fall over the next time a cow so much as sneezes on it.”

“I shall tell him to ready his post hole digger with haste .”

“You do that. Save some eggs for me.”

Syd disconnects and lobs the phone at the counter; Rex helpfully returns it to the cradle.

“Devo, Mom says save her some eggs and fix the back fence,” Sydney relays, pushing hair out of her face. “Skyler. Rexler. I thought we agreed we needed at least twenty-four hours before we saw each other’s faces again.”

“Rex was having a moment about ‘A Prayer for Arson’ going viral and wanted to talk about capitalizing on it,” Sky says. “Also, we’re out of food.”

Rex looks up guiltily from the open container in his hand.

Rex and Sky live together in a tiny studio in the city. Even though they swear there’s nothing going on between them, they share a wardrobe, a bed, and often, it seems, a single brain cell. Sydney has known them for six years and has been playing with them for just as long, and she has never met a more codependent pair of human beings. Luckily, that translates well musically.

“I invited Justin Matthews to the cookout this weekend,” Syd says, standing to go investigate the refrigerator’s offerings herself.

“Pay up,” Devo says.

Rex sets down his food and grudgingly gets out his phone.

“What was the bet?” Sydney asks. “That I’d invite him?”

“Nah, we knew you’d invite him,” Rex says. “You can’t resist a pretty face. The bet was whether you’d do it now or later. I figured you’d wait until after one of us suggested it. So you could pretend it wasn’t your idea.”

“Whereas, I know you have no shame,” Devo finishes, “and said you’d do it before you even left your bedroom.”

“A plague on both your houses,” she grouses, fishing a container of blueberries from the crisper drawer.

“You live in the same house as me so that’s weirdly self-sabotaging,” Devo says.

“It’s a metaphor .”

“Oh,” Rex says. “Is it time for another lecture from Professor Sydney? What are we discussing today? Austen? Milton?”

“No, I bet it’s the… Who was the wizard guy?” Devo snaps his fingers. “Tolkien.”

“It’s Shakespeare, you heathens.”

“Thank God you decided against going to college,” Rex says. “The pretention would be unbearable.”

“Pretentiousness,” Sydney corrects.

“I think we’re there already,” Devo mutters.

She closes the refrigerator door. “You’re both fired.”

“Yeah?” Devo crosses his arms and leans back against the counter. “What’s your blood type and your social security number?”

“…Devo is unfired,” Sydney allows.

“In all seriousness,” Rex says, returning to his leftovers. “How much do you know about this guy?”

Sydney pulls the protein powder out of the cabinet. “Eli says he’s good people.”

“He’s still a professional hockey player.”

“Guys. I just invited him to the stupid barbeque. To say thanks. I’m not interested in him.”

“We also have a bet about that,” Rex tells her.

Sydney doesn’t dignify that statement with a response and assembles her shake with as much pride as she can muster. She might run the blender a little longer than is necessary if only to prevent further conversation.

“Hey,” Devo says softly, knocking shoulders with her as she returns the milk to the refrigerator. “We just want you to be careful.”

“I know.”

“Speaking of being careful. I saw the new bike in the garage. Please tell me it’s not yours.”

“It’s not mine,” she answers dutifully.

“Syd.”

“It was a good deal. And 250ccs was not cutting it anymore. I’m finally making real money; let me enjoy it a little.”

He sighs. “Please remember that if you die, all of us lose our primary source of income.”

“Noted.”

“Hey.”

She pauses because that’s his serious voice.

“Hey,” she answers, meeting his eyes.

I worry about you , his face says. Because I love you. But I’m not going to say it out loud.

I appreciate it , she tells him back. And I love you too. But I’m also not going to say it out loud.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” she agrees.