Playing Dirty
CHAPTER ONE
ROWAN
The bass was loud enough to shake the fucking stairs.
I regretted coming here immediately.
Bodies packed the basketball house wall to wall, sweat and alcohol thick in the air while someone absolutely murdered a Drake song somewhere in the kitchen.
“Tess,” I shouted over the music, “if I die here, I’m haunting you specifically.”
My roommate laughed without even looking back. “You’re being dramatic.”
“A guy just threw up into a plant.”
“That’s college, babe.”
I hated everyone here.
Especially the basketball team.
Blackthorne treated them like gods for putting a ball through a hoop, which apparently meant they got away with everything. Miss classes? Fine. Start fights? Fine. Hook up with half the campus? Legendary behavior, apparently.
Meanwhile if I submitted one article late, Daniel acted like journalism itself was collapsing.
Bullshit.
I pushed through the crowded living room, gripping my drink harder as someone bumped my shoulder.
“Watch it,” I snapped.
“Relax, sweetheart.”
I rolled my eyes before even turning around.
Athlete.
Obviously.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Blackthorne basketball hoodie stretched over tattoos and muscle. Beer bottle hanging loosely from one hand.
Not Mason Reed, thankfully.
Just another campus clone grown in a lab somewhere.
I kept moving.
The house was massive — all dark wood floors, expensive speakers, framed jerseys on the walls. Rich-kid athlete aesthetic. You could practically smell generational wealth under the tequila fumes.
“Rowan!”
Serena appeared out of nowhere, slightly out of breath.
“You disappeared.”
“I was trying to.”
She ignored that. “Daniel’s looking for you.”
“Why?”
“That thing with the basketball article.”
I groaned immediately.
“No.”
“You literally have no choice.”
“Watch me develop a sudden illness.”
“You already used food poisoning twice this semester.”
“Because journalism is killing me.”
Serena laughed into her drink.
Unfortunately, she was right.
The campus paper had somehow landed an exclusive long-form feature on Blackthorne basketball before conference season started. Big deal. Good exposure.
Daniel wanted me writing it.
Which would’ve been fine if the article wasn’t centered around Mason fucking Reed.
Campus obsession.
NBA golden child.
Human headache.
Every girl wanted him.
Every guy wanted to be him.
Every professor gave him special treatment.
And somehow that wasn’t even the annoying part.
The annoying part was that he knew exactly how attractive he was.
I’d interviewed him once freshman year after a tournament win.
Worst twenty minutes of my life.
He’d answered every question with that lazy smirk like he was humoring me personally.
I still wanted to throw my recorder at his head.
“Where is Daniel?” I asked.
Serena pointed toward the kitchen.
“Probably trying not to get sued.”
“Helpful.”
I headed down the hallway, squeezing past bodies and clouds of weed smoke until voices started cutting through the noise near the back patio.
“…telling you right now, she hates you,” someone said.
A low laugh answered.
“She hates everyone.”
I knew that voice instantly.
Damn it.
I slowed near the kitchen doorway before I could stop myself.
Mason leaned against the counter holding a red cup, black compression shirt clinging to his arms like the universe personally hated women.
His teammates crowded around him — Jace yelling about something, Niko already drunk out of his mind, Eli sitting on the counter looking exhausted by all of them.
Mason looked unfairly good under the kitchen lights.
Dark curls messy like he’d been dragging his hands through them all night. Sharp jaw. Small cut near his eyebrow from last game.
His head tipped back slightly when he laughed.
And fucking unfortunately, I noticed his hands first.
Big hands.
Silver rings.
Veins.
Basketball player hands.
Jesus Christ.
Like sensing it, Mason glanced toward the doorway.
Our eyes locked.
There it was immediately.
Recognition.
Then amusement.
Like the universe had just handed him entertainment.
“Well,” he drawled loudly enough for everyone to hear, “if it isn’t my favorite journalist.”
“I’d rather die.”
Jace nearly choked laughing.
Mason grinned slowly.
Still looking directly at me.
“You always this friendly?”
“Only with people I dislike.”
“Feels personal.”
“It is.”
The kitchen went quieter around us in that subtle way groups do when they smell tension.
Mason pushed away from the counter.
God, he was tall.
I hated that too.
He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I caught the smell of smoke and expensive cologne under the alcohol.
“You avoiding me this semester?” he asked.
“I’ve been enjoying my peace.”
“Ouch.”
“Did you need something?”
His eyes flicked down briefly to my mouth before coming back up.
Tiny movement.
Still noticed it.
“I heard you’re writing the feature.”
I sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”
“Could be fun.”
“For who?”
“For me.”
“Exactly my point.”
Jace barked out another laugh behind him.
“Holy shit,” he said. “She really doesn’t like you.”
Mason didn’t even look away from me.
“Nah,” he said casually.
“She just thinks she does.”
The confidence in that answer irritated me instantly.
Who the fuck says that with a straight face?
I crossed my arms.
“You know what your problem is?”
“Probably several things.”
“You think every girl eventually falls for your bullshit.”
His grin widened slightly.
“Not every girl.”
“Oh, that’s humble of you.”
“But probably you.”
I stared at him.
Jace made a violent choking sound somewhere behind us.
Mason just looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like this was fun for him.
Which honestly pissed me off more.
I stepped closer before thinking better of it.
“You’re not nearly as charming as people think you are.”
His gaze sharpened slightly at that.
Finally.
Something real.
“Funny,” he said quietly.
“You don’t look immune.”
The air shifted.
Subtle but immediate.
I became painfully aware of:
the music,
the people around us,
how close he was standing,
how one of his hands brushed my elbow for half a second moving his cup.
Stupid body.
Stupid nervous system.
I held his stare anyway.
“I think you mistake attraction for personality a lot.”
Something flickered across his face then.
Fast.
Interesting.
Before he could answer, Daniel suddenly appeared from nowhere looking stressed as usual.
“Great,” he said, seeing us. “You found each other.”
“I was trying not to,” I muttered.
Daniel ignored me completely.
“Rowan’s officially covering the team this semester,” he told Mason. “Practices, interviews, travel pieces. Full access.”
Mason’s eyes stayed on mine.
“Full access?” he repeated slowly.
Something about the way he said it made heat crawl up my neck.
I immediately hated that.
Daniel nodded. “Try not to kill each other. I need this feature published.”
“No promises,” I said.
Mason smiled without humor this time.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“Neither do I.”