Chapter Two
THEO
Rowan Hale believes I stole her parking space.
I arrived first.
This distinction does not interest her.
At nine seventeen, she sits across from me in the athletic director’s conference room wearing a green team jacket and the expression of a person evaluating structural weaknesses.
Rowan is five foot eight, strong through the shoulders, dark hair braided tightly, and incapable of entering a room without making every object aware of her.
She is also wrong about the ice.
The compressor failure left thirty-six players without a morning slot. I moved six. This is efficient resource use.
It was not, according to the director, efficient communication.
“We need the clinic proposal by Friday,” Athletic Director Morales says. “One program. Equal branding. Equal instructional time. Shared revenue.”
Rowan says, “Equal facility access?”
“Yes.”
“Put it in writing.”
Morales slides a document toward her.
Rowan reads it before touching the pen.
I understand this instinct.
That is inconvenient.
“The clinic serves ages ten to sixteen,” Morales continues. “Two weeks in July. You will co-direct. Coaches will advise, but student leadership drives the design.”
“Why us?” I ask.
“Because you are captains.”
“Former captain,” Rowan says to me.
“Graduation is next year.”
“You completed your season.”
“Captaincy is annual.”
She turns to Morales. “See? Human meeting agenda.”
Mara coughs in the back row.
She has no official reason to attend. Finn’s national podcast episode made her impossible to remove from athletic-media meetings because everyone assumes she is documenting history. She is currently pretending to review sound levels on a recorder that is not turned on.
Morales says, “You both advocated for integrated resources during the station fundraiser. This is the result.”
Rowan points at me. “He advocated for a schedule.”
“I secured three additional women’s broadcast slots.”
“After I explained public embarrassment.”
“Your method was inefficient.”
“It worked.”
Morales stands. “Friday.”
The meeting ends.
Rowan gathers her papers and leaves before I close the notebook.
I follow her into the hallway.
“Hale.”
“No.”
“We need to set a work schedule.”
“No.”
“The deadline is in four days.”
“I can count.”
“Evidence is mixed.”
She stops.
I realize too late that I made a joke.
Rowan turns slowly.
There is surprise in her face before irritation replaces it.
“Did Theo Park attempt humor?”
“No.”
“Mara!” she shouts.
Mara appears around the corner immediately. “I felt a disturbance.”
“Park made a joke.”
“Unconfirmed,” I say.
Mara looks between us. “This summer is going to save my career.”
She disappears again.
Rowan resumes walking.
“Library, six tonight,” I say.
“I have dryland.”
“Seven.”
“Team dinner.”
“Eight.”
“I have a life.”
The statement challenges an assumption I did not make.
“Tomorrow at noon,” I say.
“Women’s locker-room lounge.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because entering your locker room is inappropriate.”
“The lounge has an exterior door.”
“I did not know that.”
“Because you never come to our side of the building.”
There it is.
Not parking. Not one morning slot. The accumulated geography of being treated as secondary.
I should defend myself. I did not design the building. I did not create the funding difference. I have corrected schedules when asked.
When asked.
Rowan has had to ask too often.
“Noon,” I say. “Your lounge.”
Her eyes narrow, searching for resistance.
“Bring attendance numbers, equipment needs, and clinic goals,” she says.
“I already compiled them.”
“Of course you did.”
She opens the exit door.
Rain blows into the hallway.
In the parking lot, her truck is blocked by mine.
I look at the lines.
The spaces are narrow. I parked correctly, but her driver’s door has less than a foot of clearance.
Rowan folds her arms.
“You stole the space and trapped me.”
“I did not steal it.”
“Move.”
I take out my keys.
“Please,” I say.
Her expression changes.
“What?”
“You forgot please.”
For three seconds, neither of us moves.
Then Rowan steps closer until rain glitters on her eyelashes.
“Move your car, Park.”
“That is not please.”
Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Or I imagine it.
“Move it,” she says softly, “before I test whether your championship ring scratches paint.”
I move the car.
As she drives away, Mara texts me.
MARA: Was that flirting or a parking dispute?
I type parking dispute.
My thumb pauses over send.
Then I delete the message.
Some questions do not improve through documentation.