Chapter 11
ELEVEN
THEO
Spring hits Lexington like it’s making up for lost time.
The air smells like grass and warm pavement, and every tree on campus is showing off, bursting into pinks and whites and those fuzzy green buds that make everything look like a painting. It’s the kind of day that feels like it’s holding its breath, like it knows something good’s about to happen.
I step out of my car and immediately regret wearing a hoodie. It’s too warm. The sun’s already baking the sidewalk, while the breeze is just shy of sticky. But it’s Caden’s hoodie, so obviously, I’m not taking it off.
His building looks exactly like it did the last time I was here a week ago—still part of campus, but cleaner, newer, and less chaotic than the freshman dorms he was in last year.
The suite-style setup means fewer people crammed into one space, and it’s a lot quieter.
A guy in flip-flops lumbers past, earbuds in, muttering like he’s trying to psych himself up for a final.
I text Caden that I’m outside, and it takes less than a minute before the door swings open.
And there he is.
Six-foot-four now, his lineup is crisp, and his hair is tapered low on the sides and in the back with longer tight coils on top that I love twisting with my fingers when we cuddle.
They appear damp like he just got back from the gym or maybe just showered, wearing shorts like it’s July, and grinning like I’ve just made his whole damn week.
“You wore the hoodie,” he says, voice already half laughing, stepping out onto the cracked cement and pulling me in before I can even drop my bag.
“You say that like I don’t wear it every other day,” I mumble into his shoulder. It’s one of my favorites. Though, it’s not something I can get away with wearing on campus at Louisville.
He presses his face into the side of my neck for half a second. I feel the breath he lets out. His fingers curl just slightly tighter around my waist. “Still smells like me,” he says softly.
“Gross,” I reply, not stepping back.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
We stand there too long. Hugging like this on a public sidewalk like we don’t know better. Like this campus doesn’t have eyes. Like someone won’t make a comment. Like we’re not trying to keep this just ours.
And right on cue, a second-story window creaks open and someone yells, “Y’all need a room or what?”
Caden doesn’t even flinch. He lifts a hand, middle finger high in the air, not even looking up. “Kick rocks, Mason,” he calls, casual as breathing.
I force a laugh that doesn’t quite feel right and untangle myself like it’s nothing. Just a bro hug. Just friends being dumb.
No one knows. We’ve continued to keep it that way.
Shared emails, texts, late-night Skype calls that end with silence and stubble against the screen.
Another year of pretending we’re just close.
Of playing it cool while texting like we’re dying.
But since I moved to Louisville last year, it’s been a hell of a lot easier.
Caden grabs my duffel like it weighs nothing and nudges open the door with his shoulder.
Inside, the hallway smells like Axe body spray.
Nothing’s changed. It’s familiar, and what’s better is this year, Cade has his own room.
And the other guys here—most of the basketball team—they don’t even raise a brow that I’m here so often.
Once we’re inside his room and the door clicks shut, it’s like a switch flips. My back hits the wood with a quiet thud and he’s there, hands on my jaw, mouth already on mine like he’s starved for it. He fists the hoodie between his fingers like he’s reminding himself I’m real.
God, I missed him.
Two years in, and I still can’t believe this is real.
When he finally pulls out of the kiss, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathless, he whispers, “Happy anniversary.”
I blink. “Wait—today?”
“You absolute asshole.”
“No, no, I knew it was close—like, I knew it was this week.”
“It’s literally today,” he says, pointing at his wall calendar with an inked heart. “Marked and everything.”
I exhale, grinning despite myself. “You made a calendar event?”
He shrugs, and I want to kiss him again, but he steps back. He’s practically vibrating. “Okay. Get ready. I have plans.”
“Plans?”
He tosses me a water bottle from his mini fridge. “Yes. Plans. Blanket, food, music, and one absolutely perfect hill. Don’t make fun of me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Well, maybe a little.
” My heart stumbles at how sweet he is. Since his second season ended—Final Four heartbreak and all—we’ve been stealing these pockets of time before finals hit.
Then it’s home to Gomillion, where, if we get our way, we’ll be wrapped up in each other every night.
Thankfully, our parents don’t even do a double blink anymore.
We grab stuff—he pulls a blanket from under his bed, a cooler bag from his closet—and we head out the back entrance. It’s quieter this way. He keeps brushing my knuckles with his when we walk, like he can’t help it, and I pretend not to notice even as I lean into it.
We don’t talk much as we walk across campus.
It’s warm enough that the air feels heavy, but not hot.
Just humid spring. The scent of magnolia clings to everything.
We cut around the library and up a side path to the hill behind the art building—the one spot on campus no one seems to care about. Which is probably why it’s ours.
We settle near the top, under one of the big trees that hasn’t quite bloomed yet. He spreads out the blanket and collapses backward like he’s already exhausted.
“This is your plan?” I tease. “Lying here and doing nothing?”
“No,” he says, pulling out a container of strawberries. “Also, feeding you fruit.”
I smirk. “Very romantic.”
He shrugs. “It’s low-key. We’re low-key.”
Right. Low-key.
He hands me a strawberry, fingers brushing mine. Our knees touch. His foot nudges mine under the blanket like it means nothing.
I eat the strawberry and lie back, closing my eyes.
“So,” he says after a few minutes. “Two years.”
“Two years.”
“That’s wild.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It kind of is.”
I open my eyes. He’s watching me. He has that soft kind of look he only ever gives me when no one else is around. The kind that makes my stomach do something complicated.
We lie here in silence, wind moving through the grass, music playing soft and low from his small boom box—some sleepy R&B song I don’t know the name of, but it fits the mood too perfectly.
“I love you,” he says quietly, like it’s the first time, even though it’s not.
I glance around—no one’s close enough to hear—and say it back. It still hits me like it’s new.
There’s a pause, and the world exhales around us. Somewhere down the hill, someone’s playing Frisbee. Laughter floats up on the wind. A bird dives into the branches overhead. But right here, where our arms brush and his pinkie keeps nudging mine, it’s like nothing else matters.
And still, I don’t move. Not to take his hand. Not to lean in. Not to kiss him even though I want to. Because we don’t get to have those moments in public. Not here. Not yet.
I tilt my head to look at him—really look—and for a second, I think he might be fighting the same urge. His mouth twitches like he’s about to say something, but then he just sighs and settles onto his back, one arm bent behind his head.
We stay this way for a long minute. Not touching, not not touching.
“I wish I could,” I say quietly.
He turns to me. “What?”
I swallow. “Hold your hand. Out here. Just… be normal.”
His face shifts, softens in that way that makes it worse. “You are normal,” he says.
“You know what I mean.”
He nods. “Yeah. I do.”
I push my sleeve up higher and let the warmth settle into my skin. “At Louisville, I don’t really think about it anymore. I’m just… out. I don’t have to come out every time I talk to someone, you know? People don’t make it weird. It’s not perfect, but… it’s mine. My space.”
Caden nods, looking somewhere past the trees. “That sounds nice.”
“It is nice,” I say. “I didn’t realize how much I was shrinking before until I stopped.”
His jaw ticks. Just barely. “You think I’m shrinking?”
“No,” I say quickly. “That’s not—” I pause and try again. “I think you’re doing what you need to. To survive here. To play. To stay safe.”
He’s quiet for a long beat. Then he practically whispers, “Sometimes it feels like I’m holding my breath.”
My chest tugs. “I know.”
“And then you show up,” he says, voice lower, “and suddenly it’s easier. But harder too.”
I nod. Because yeah. Exactly that.
“Every time I see you at a game or in the distance, I want to call out. I want to pull you into me and not care who’s watching. But then I think about who is watching, and I can’t.” His voice is raw around the edges now. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just—”
“Cade.” I sit up a little, shift closer. “I know. I never doubted that.”
He finally meets my eyes, and it guts me. There’s too much in them. Love, frustration, fear, hope. A whole damn storm.
“You’re worth it,” I say.
He exhales. “You shouldn’t have to say that.”
“Maybe not. But I mean it.”
And I do. Even if I hate that we have to hide. Even if it stings every time he looks at me like this—full of everything we can’t show. I’d still do this a hundred times over.
His hand brushes mine again, and this time he lets it linger. His fingers wrap around mine, light and loose and secret behind the bag near our feet.
I could cry from something that small. Instead, I ask, “Have you thought about what happens next?”
He glances at me, confused. “Next?”
“After next season.”
A flicker of recognition. “Oh. Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’ve been talking to Coach about the draft. Like, actually having those conversations now.”
I sit up straighter. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not declaring yet. That wouldn’t be ’til after next season. But Coach thinks I’ve got a real shot at going pro next year.”
My heart kicks in my chest. This is what he’s been working so hard for. I know his parents want him to complete all four years first, but they also won’t stand in his way. Neither will I. “Caden, that’s amazing.”
He shrugs, but he’s trying not to smile. “It’s just talk for now. But he said if I keep up the numbers, keep working on my off-ball movement, and improve my shooting consistency, I could be looking at second-round projections.”
I blink. “That’s huge.”
“I know.” He looks out over the grass, where the sun’s dipping just slightly behind the trees. “I’ve got to meet with an adviser this summer about getting registered with the NCAA’s eligibility center, maybe start thinking about agents. Thought I’d talk to Cameron.”
I nod in understanding. While Cameron, one of our high school basketball friends, is also in his sophomore year out west, his dream is to become a sports agent. Knowing the guy, and how dedicated he was, I suspect he’s already got connections and internships set up.
“Coach said I can test the waters next year—go to the Combine, get feedback, and still come back if I don’t like where I land.”
“Right. That’s the new rule now, huh?”
“Yeah. I can declare for the draft and still retain eligibility if I don’t sign with an agent. As long as I withdraw in time.”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m proud of you.”
He laughs under his breath. “You say that like I’ve already made it.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I say it like someone who sees how hard you’re working. Who knows how much you’ve given up for this.”
His smile fades a little, and something more vulnerable settles there. “What if I get everything I want and still can’t be myself?”
I pause. That one hits deep.
“You’ll get there,” I say. “When you’re ready. Not when other people want you to be.”
He nods slowly. “I just—I don’t want to get to the league and still be hiding after years of playing, you know? I want to walk out of a tunnel and know that I don’t have to lie about who I’m going home to after the game.”
I slide my hand out of his and press my palm against his cheek, just for a second. Just long enough to ground us. “Then we’ll get there together.”
His eyes flutter shut.
When he opens them again, he leans forward and kisses me. Soft. Barely there. Like a secret passed from his mouth to mine.
And that’s all we need. Not because it’s enough, but because, right now, it’s what we can have.
And honestly? For him? It’s worth everything.