Chapter 13 His Hoodie
L ena told herself the almost-kiss did not matter.
This was a lie.
Not a small lie either.
Not the polite kind people used when they said they were five minutes away while still standing in front of their bathroom mirror.
This was a full-bodied, professionally dressed, emotionally fraudulent lie with good posture and excellent lip gloss.
The almost-kiss mattered.
It mattered when she brushed her teeth that night and caught herself staring at her own mouth like it belonged to someone reckless.
It mattered when she woke up before her alarm, heart already racing, because for one terrible second she thought she could still feel Nico’s thumb against her jaw.
It mattered when she opened her phone and saw no message from him.
No apology.
No explanation.
No late-night you back?
Nothing.
Which was fine.
Wonderful, actually.
Healthy.
Because Nico Reyes was not supposed to text her. He was not supposed to touch her face in the dark beside the tennis courts. He was definitely not supposed to look at her mouth like the only thing stopping him from kissing her was the thin, trembling thread of his own self-control.
He was her temporary public relationship partner.
Her campaign.
Her strategy.
Her disaster with legs.
He was not supposed to become the reason she changed outfits three times before practice content filming because suddenly every sweater felt either too casual, too desperate, or too I have been thinking about your mouth since midnight.
She settled on black leggings, a white tank, and an oversized Westbridge zip-up.
Neutral.
Athletic.
Professional.
The kind of outfit that said, I am here to do my job, not emotionally combust near a man with anger issues and excellent forearms.
By four o’clock, gray clouds had gathered over the tennis complex, dragging the afternoon into a strange silver gloom. The air smelled like rain and hot concrete. Players moved across the courts in restless bursts, trying to squeeze in drills before the weather broke.
Lena stood near Court Two with her phone mounted on a stabilizer, pretending she had not looked toward Court One eleven times in five minutes.
Maya, who had come under the noble lie of helping with content, leaned against the fence beside her with a bag of sour candy.
“You’re doing that thing,” Maya said.
Lena adjusted the camera angle. “Working?”
“Lying with your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows are innocent.”
“Your eyebrows have been looking for Nico for the last ten minutes.”
Lena pressed record on a doubles drill. “I am monitoring campaign talent.”
“Is that what we’re calling almost kissing him now?”
The phone dipped.
Lena caught it before the frame went fully sideways.
She turned slowly. “I told you that in confidence.”
Maya popped a candy into her mouth. “I am confidently telling you that you’re in trouble.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Exactly. That’s why you look like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like nothing happened very aggressively.”
Lena opened her mouth.
Closed it.
That was unfairly accurate.
Across the court, a ball snapped against strings.
Nico.
She knew before she looked.
That was another problem.
She knew the sound of his serve now.
Harder than Jace’s. Cleaner than Tyler’s. Angrier than anyone’s had a right to be.
She looked anyway.
Nico stood at the far baseline in black shorts and a fitted gray training shirt, hair damp at the temples, wrist wrapped in white tape. He had not looked at her once since she arrived.
Not once.
Which was fine.
Excellent.
Exactly what two people should do after nearly kissing beside a fence and then pretending the earth had not shifted under them.
He served again.
The ball landed deep in the corner.
Jace whistled from the opposite side. “You planning to hit tennis balls or execute them?”
Nico caught the next ball. “Depends how they behave.”
“Healthy.”
Lena tried not to smile.
Failed.
Nico looked over at that exact moment.
Their eyes met.
The air changed.
It should not have been possible from two courts away.
It was.
His gaze dropped briefly to the zip-up she wore, then back to her face. Something unreadable moved through his expression before he turned away.
Maya made a tiny sound.
Lena glared at her. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed judgmentally.”
“I’m gifted.”
Before Lena could respond, thunder rumbled somewhere beyond the athletic fields.
The first few drops of rain hit the court like dark coins.
Coach Hart blew his whistle.
“Bring it in,” he called. “We’re moving inside if this picks up.”
Players groaned. Someone complained about the timing. Jace jogged toward the bench, towel over his head like a dramatic widow.
The drizzle became rain in less than a minute.
Not a storm.
Not yet.
But steady enough for Talia to wave frantically from near the media table. “Equipment! Lena, get the camera bags!”
“I’ve got them,” Lena called.
She lowered the stabilizer and hurried toward the covered bench area. Maya grabbed one tripod. Lena gathered the camera bag, extra lens case, and the small microphone kit Talia guarded like a newborn.
Rain spotted her arms and dampened her hair.
By the time she zipped the equipment bag, the players were filing toward the indoor facility.
All except Nico.
Of course.
He remained near Court One, collecting balls from the wet surface with methodical irritation.
Lena looked at him.
Then at the darkening sky.
Then back at him.
No.
Absolutely not.
She was not going over there.
She was not going to ask if he was fine.
She was not going to give him another opportunity to say something emotionally devastating and then disappear.
She made it three steps toward the indoor facility.
Then turned around.
Maya called after her, “Wow. Shocking development.”
Lena ignored her.
Rain slid down the back of her neck as she crossed to Court One.
“Nico,” she called.
He bent to pick up another ball. “Go inside.”
“Do you have an automated response system?”
“Yes.”
“It’s rude.”
“It’s efficient.”
“You’re standing on a wet court with a taped wrist.”
He straightened then.
Slowly.
The rain had darkened his shirt at the shoulders. Water clung to his hair and lashes. His expression was closed, but not as cold as she expected.
More tired.
That was worse.
“I’m almost done,” he said.
“You are impossible.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Lena stepped through the gate and grabbed three balls near the sideline, tossing them into the basket with more force than necessary.
“I can do it,” he said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you helping?”
Because I don’t know how not to.
The answer was immediate.
Dangerous.
Unacceptable.
She gave him a safer one.
“Because if you slip and break your wrist, Talia will make me draft the apology statement.”
His mouth twitched.
Barely.
She would take it.
They gathered the rest in silence. Rain tapped against the court around them. The tennis complex had emptied quickly, leaving only the two of them under the gray sky, moving through the wet lines like they were cleaning up after a match neither had won.
Lena reached for a ball near the net at the same time Nico did.
Their hands nearly touched.
Both stopped.
Ridiculous.
They had almost kissed less than twenty-four hours ago, and now they were acting like a brush of fingers required legal counsel.
Nico picked up the ball first and dropped it into the basket.
“You’re wet,” he said.
Lena blinked. “That is generally what happens in rain.”
His eyes flicked over her damp hair, her bare arms, the zip-up clinging lightly to her shoulders.
Not in a leering way.
In a noticing way.
Which was worse.
Then he looked away, jaw tightening.
“You should go inside.”
“There it is again.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Thunder rolled closer.
The rain strengthened.
Lena shivered before she could hide it.
Nico saw.
His expression changed.
“No,” she said immediately.
His brows drew together. “What?”
“Whatever you’re about to do, no.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you’re about to be secretly decent and then act offended if anyone notices.”
For one second, he stared at her.
Then he pulled his black Westbridge hoodie from his bag and held it out.
Lena stared at it like it was a trap.
“Nico.”
“Put it on.”
“I have a jacket.”
“You have a damp piece of university-branded optimism.”
She looked down at her zip-up.
Fair.
Still.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed. “Lena.”
Oh, that voice was unfair.
Low. Firm. Too close to the tone he had used when his fingers touched her face.
Her pulse betrayed her.
Again.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re shivering.”
“It’s atmospheric.”
“It’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.”
His mouth twitched. “Great argument.”
He stepped closer and placed the hoodie in her hands.
Not around her shoulders.
Not over her head.
Just into her hands.
A choice.
That was the problem with Nico. When it mattered, he understood permission better than people who smiled through boundaries for a living.
Lena looked down at the hoodie.
It was warm from his bag and heavier than expected.
She should have handed it back.
Instead, she slipped it on.
It swallowed her.
Of course it did.
The sleeves fell past her hands. The hem hit low on her thighs. The inside smelled like clean laundry, rain, and Nico.
Terrible.
Absolutely terrible.
She zipped it halfway and tried not to breathe too deeply.
Nico watched her for one second too long.
Then he looked away like the sight had cost him something.
“Better?” he asked.
Her voice came out softer than planned. “Yes.”
The rain filled the silence.
From beneath the covered walkway, someone laughed.
A camera flashed.
Lena turned.
A girl from the tennis media team stood near the equipment cart, phone lowered too late.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I was just—”
Lena’s stomach dropped.
Nico went still beside her.
The girl hurried inside.
For a second, the rain sounded much louder.
Then Nico said, “Great.”
Lena pulled out her phone.
She did not even need to wait.
The gossip account updated two minutes later.
A photo filled the screen.
Lena standing on Court One in Nico’s oversized black hoodie, rain in her hair, Nico beside her with the ball basket in one hand and his gaze turned toward her like he had forgotten the rest of the world existed.
The caption read:
SHE’S WEARING HIS HOODIE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Lena closed her eyes.
“Oh my God.”
Nico leaned in just enough to see.
His shoulder brushed hers.
Again.
Always accidentally.
Never harmless.
The comments were already multiplying.
I have passed away.
The hoodie stage???
Fake dating where?
Nico Reyes giving boyfriend energy was not on my bingo card.
Coach Hart seeing this and combusting in 3...2...
Lena’s eyes snapped open.
Her father.
Perfect.
Wonderful.
Could this day get worse?
Her phone buzzed.
Dad.
Yes.
Yes, it could.
Lena stared at the call.
Nico saw the name.
“You should answer.”
“I would rather swallow the microphone kit.”
“Specific.”
“I’m under stress.”
The call stopped.
Then a text appeared.
My office. Now.
Lena exhaled slowly.
Nico’s expression went unreadable.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Lena said, already annoyed by whatever self-sacrificing sentence he was about to build.
His brows lifted.
She looked up at him from inside his hoodie, which was not helping her authority at all.
“I know I don’t have to defend you,” she said. “I know this is public. I know it looks more intimate than planned. I know my father is probably creating a new category of disappointment as we speak.”
Nico’s mouth pressed into a line.
Almost guilt.
Almost tenderness.
Neither was acceptable.
“But?” he asked.
“But it was raining,” she said. “And you gave me a hoodie. That’s not a crime.”
“Your dad might disagree.”
“My dad once grounded me for taking a team golf cart across campus when I was sixteen.”
“Did you steal it?”
“Borrowed.”
“Did he know?”
“Eventually.”
Nico almost smiled.
There it was.
The small crack in the storm.
Lena wanted to reach for it.
She did not.
Instead, she unzipped the hoodie. “I should give this back before—”
“No.”
Her hands paused.
His voice had come out too quickly.
They both heard it.
Nico looked away. “Keep it until you’re dry.”
“Nico—”
“Lena.”
The rain softened around them.
His eyes came back to hers.
Dark.
Steady.
Too much.
“Keep it,” he said.
Her throat tightened.
She nodded once.
“Okay.”
The word felt bigger than it should have.
He picked up his racket bag, and they walked toward the indoor facility together with careful space between them. Not touching. Not looking. Not talking.
The hoodie did all the talking for them.
By the time Lena reached her father’s office, the rain had slowed to a mist, her hair had started to curl around her face, and the scent of Nico was still wrapped around her like a mistake she did not want to take off.
Coach Hart’s door was open.
He stood behind his desk, phone in hand.
The gossip photo glowed on the screen.
His eyes lifted to Lena.
Then dropped to the hoodie.
The silence was immediate.
Heavy.
Painful.
“Lena,” he said.
She hated that one word could still make her feel sixteen.
She stepped inside.
Before she could speak, Nico appeared behind her in the hallway.
Lena turned, startled.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He looked at her father, then at her.
His face was calm.
Too calm.
“Not letting you take this alone.”
Her heart did something stupid and bright.
Coach Hart’s gaze moved between them.
Slowly.
Then settled on Nico.
“Reyes,” he said, voice low.
Nico stood straighter.
“Coach.”
The room tightened around them.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Coach Hart looked at his daughter in another man’s hoodie and said the words Lena had known were coming.
“I think we need to discuss what exactly this arrangement has become.”