Chapter 22
LEO
My phone won’t stop vibrating.
I swipe sweat off my face with the hem of my jersey, grinning as my teammates slap my back and shout about the win.
I dropped twenty-three points, six rebounds, four steals.
Crushed it. The gym still smells like popcorn and rubber soles, but the high from the game is already fading because my screen is lighting up like a damn Christmas tree.
Snapchat, Instagram, iMessages. Group chats blowing up. My name tagged in posts I didn’t authorize. And at least three texts from girls I don’t even talk to.
But it’s the photo that makes my stomach drop.
Jade.
My mother.
Side by side, smiling politely outside some stupid holiday boutique, Chanel bags in one hand, hot cocoa in the other. Jade in her trench coat and red lipstick. Mom in her cashmere.
What in the actual—
I frown, hard. “What the hell is going on?”
“You good?” Xavier calls, tugging his hoodie on beside me in the locker room.
“Yeah. Just—” I tilt my phone so he sees the image. His eyebrows shoot up.
“No. Freaking. Way.”
“Right?” I mutter. “This has to be some kind of manipulation. My mother hates everyone. She didn’t even like me until junior year.”
Then the phone buzzes again. Brown. Yale. Two new coaches, both leaving voicemails.
Oh. That’s right.
Apparently, my athletic tier status is finally hitting the Ivy League radar. First Harvard. Now this. My social media love story is only adding to my persona and resume.
I should be thrilled. My stats are fire. I’m academically solid. I’m on every shortlist from coast to coast.
But all I can focus on is that damn photo.
Jade. With my mother. Shopping.
This can’t be good.
Everyone's loud—laughing, passing around sour gummies, blasting drill beats on tinny speakers. I should be right in the middle of it, hyped about the win and the attention from Brown and Yale.
But I’m four rows back, hood up, glaring at my phone like it personally betrayed me.
Kannon.
On his Snap Story. Flashing that smug smile.
Caption: “Winter Ball ready ” with a video of Jade—my Jade—in her varsity jacket, laughing in the passenger seat of his Tesla like she belongs there.
My jaw tightens. I grind my molars so hard I swear my back teeth ache.
“He really asked her?” I mutter, too quiet for anyone to hear.
“Yo, Holt.” Tristan slides into the seat next to me, holding out his phone. “You see this yet?”
It’s the same story. Again. Just a different angle. Kannon showing off Jade like he won a prize.
“Yeah,” I say, voice sharp.
“You good?”
“No. I’m not good.”
Because it should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one to take her, to show up beside her looking like we run this school together. But I hesitated. I tried to keep her safe—stay away so the flames wouldn’t touch her. And now Kannon's there like some bargain-bin Prince Charming.
And she said yes.
What the hell does that mean?
I shove a hand through my hair and lean back, jaw still locked.
“Winter Ball’s gonna be wild,” Tristan says with a low whistle. “You going with what’s-her-face? The transfer?”
I nod, even though I don’t want to. Even though I barely remember her name. She’s just... safe. Easy. Expected.
But Jade? Jade was everything.
And now she’s not mine.
Not yet.
But I don’t plan on losing her twice.
I toss my duffel near the stairs and head straight for the study. My phone’s been blowing up since we got off the bus from Connecticut. DMs, texts, notifs. Everyone’s asking the same thing:
Jade and my mother? Shopping? Together?
The group chat was the first to blow. Xavier sent the story with the caption: Yo, wtf? Kannon added a smug little sunglasses emoji, and Tristan just said, Y’all back on or nah?
Even the Brown coach mentioned it after the game, like it was some kind of recruitment tactic. Yale texted too. Apparently dropping 32 points and 9 rebounds gets you attention when your last name’s Holt.
But none of that compares to the slow burn in my chest when I see Jade’s name on screen next to my mother’s.
I find her in the sitting room, perched like a magazine spread, drink in hand, Christmas jazz playing like we live in a Nancy Meyers movie. She doesn’t even flinch when I step in.
“I crushed it tonight,” I say, testing her.
She glances up, smiling faintly. “So I heard. Ivy League coaches usually don’t personally recruit during their own season.”
“Then you’ve heard everything,” I mutter. “Except maybe why you were out Christmas shopping with Jade Bryan.”
That gets her attention. A single brow lifts. “Oh? Word travels fast.”
“Mom.” I step closer. “What are you doing?”
She sips her brandy slowly, eyes never leaving mine. “Just running errands. Picking up a few things. Jade has exquisite taste, by the way.”
My stomach tightens. “You hate Jade.”
“I did,” she admits. “But that was before I got to know her properly. People can change, Leo.”
“Uh-huh. And you just decided to bond with her over sushi?”
She shrugs. “She was nearby. We had a chat.”
“About what?”
“Oh, the usual. Life. College. Circumstances.” Her tone is too even. Too practiced. “She’s quite sharp, you know. Said she liked Boston College.”
I pause. “She told you that?”
“She did.”
I squint at her, suspicious. “What are you up to?”
She sets down her glass with a soft clink and rises gracefully, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve. “Nothing, darling. Can’t a mother explore... alternate futures?”
“Not when she’s meddling.”
She smiles. “You give me so little credit. I only want what’s best for you.”
“And Jade?”
She leans in slightly, perfume floating like a secret. “Sometimes what’s best for you is what you’re too proud to ask for back.”
Then she turns and walks out, leaving me standing there alone, jaw clenched, thoughts spiraling.
I check my phone again.
Still no text from Jade.
But now I’m wondering if I’m the only one who doesn’t know what’s coming.
The morning air is sharp as I cut through the main quad, the crunch of old snow under my boots like a countdown in my ears. The campus is buzzing — talk of winter ball, final exams, early decision results. But all I can focus on is her.
Rosalie.
She’s standing by the science wing, surrounded by her entourage, wearing her signature glossy lips and a red puffer cropped just enough to show her designer belt. She catches sight of me, and her face lights up like she’s been waiting all morning.
I walk straight up, ignoring the curious stares.
“Rosalie,” I say evenly. “Can we talk?”
She flips her hair, laughing at something one of her friends says before dismissing them with a casual wave. “Finally. I was about to text you. Are we matching tux and dress or going with contrast? I found the cutest—”
“I’m not escorting you.”
The words drop like a bomb.
She blinks. “What?”
“I’m not going to the ball with you. I’m going stag.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “You’re joking. After everything—you said—”
“I said yes before I knew better,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “But it wouldn’t be right to escort you when my heart lies elsewhere.”
“Are you serious right now?” Her voice pitches higher, echoing off the building’s brick facade. “This is so humiliating.”
“I’m not trying to embarrass you,” I say, soft but firm. “I’m just being honest. I’d rather be upfront now than fake something for a photo op.”
She takes a step back like I struck her. “Is this about her?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
She huffs, “You’re making a mistake. Everyone at this school will see it.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But at least it’ll be my mistake.”
Then I turn and walk away, pulse thudding like war drums in my ears. I don’t check to see who’s watching. Don’t care if the whispers start before I hit the stairs. For the first time in a long time, I know exactly where I stand.
And who I’m walking toward.