CHAPTER THREE
ROWAN
I lasted exactly forty minutes at Blackthorne Arena before Mason Reed pissed me off again.
Which honestly had to be some kind of record.
“Why are basketball players physically incapable of answering questions like normal people?” I asked Daniel from behind my camera.
Daniel didn’t look up from his laptop. “Because if they were emotionally functional, college sports would collapse.”
Fair.
Practice thundered across the court in front of us — sneakers squeaking, coaches yelling, music blasting through overhead speakers loud enough to rattle my skull.
Blackthorne basketball practice looked less like a sport and more like a public execution with better branding.
Mason jogged backward down the court, sweat darkening the gray shirt stretched across his shoulders. One of the assistant coaches screamed something at him.
Mason responded by draining a three-pointer without even fully turning around.
The entire gym erupted.
Show-off.
Like he felt me watching, his head snapped toward the media section.
Direct eye contact immediately.
God, that was annoying.
Most people looked away first.
Mason never did.
He jogged toward the bench while one of the trainers handed him water.
Then he smirked at me.
Actually smirked.
From across the fucking court.
I flipped him off instinctively.
Wrong choice.
Jace, sitting nearby stretching his ankle, saw the entire thing and nearly fell over laughing.
“Mason!” he yelled across the gym. “Your girlfriend’s here!”
“Oh my god,” I muttered.
Mason took a long drink of water without breaking eye contact with me once.
Then:
“Thought she hated me.”
“DO hate you,” I shouted back.
Jace looked delighted. “Tension’s crazy though.”
The coach blew his whistle violently.
“Less flirting, more defense!”
Heat climbed up my neck instantly.
“I would rather die.”
Mason grinned.
Actually grinned.
Then practice resumed before I could throw something at his head.
Daniel finally looked up from his laptop beside me. “You know antagonizing him isn’t technically journalism.”
“He started it.”
“You flipped him off across an NCAA court.”
“He was being annoying with his face.”
Daniel stared at me for a second.
“You’re aware you sound insane.”
Probably.
Unfortunately.
The thing was, Mason had somehow become impossible to ignore after the party.
Not because I liked him.
Absolutely not.
But because once someone noticed him, he stayed noticeable.
Which was deeply irritating.
Campus loved him in an obvious way.
Girls stared.
People moved around him differently.
Professors suddenly became flexible with deadlines.
But up close, there was something slightly off about the whole thing.
Like he was performing “Mason Reed” constantly.
Too aware of himself.
Too controlled.
Even when joking around with teammates, part of him stayed detached somehow.
Like he was waiting for something.
Or avoiding it.
The whistle blew again.
Mason drove aggressively toward the basket, shoving past Tyler before dunking hard enough to shake the rim.
The gym exploded.
Coach barely reacted.
“Again!”
Psychopath.
Jace jogged beside Mason saying something that made him laugh breathlessly.
Then Mason bent forward, hands on his knees, chest heaving.
And for half a second—
his expression dropped completely.
Gone.
Blank.
Exhausted.
Not dramatic exhausted.
Not athlete tired.
Something heavier.
Then he noticed me watching again.
And just like that, the mask slid back into place.
Weird.
Practice finally ended twenty sweaty years later.
Players scattered toward the locker rooms while managers cleaned equipment around the court.
I started organizing my notes when someone dropped into the seat beside me.
Mason.
Sweaty.
Annoyingly attractive.
Breathing hard.
“You know,” he said, grabbing a towel from around his neck, “most journalists try not to publicly assault the people they’re covering.”
“I used one finger. Hardly assault.”
“Still hurt my feelings.”
“You seem resilient.”
He laughed quietly, rubbing the towel over his face.
Up close, he looked exhausted.
Not in a normal way.
There were dark circles under his eyes I hadn’t noticed at the party. Slight tension in his jaw like he was clenching his teeth constantly.
“Practice always this intense?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Mason leaned back in the chair beside me.
“You asking actual basketball questions now?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Coach gets worse before conference games.”
“That seems healthy.”
“It’s Division One basketball. Healthy stopped existing years ago.”
That one felt less rehearsed.
Better.
Realer.
I wrote something down in my notebook.
Mason watched me for a second.
“What are you writing?”
“That you’re emotionally unstable.”
“Make sure you spell my name right.”
I snorted before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked toward me immediately.
Like he noticed every reaction I gave him.
Dangerous.
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” I asked.
His expression shifted slightly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The interview question.”
“That wasn’t an interview question.”
“Sure.”
I closed my notebook. “Fine. Officially then.”
Mason stretched his arms over his head lazily.
Which did extremely unfair things to the muscles in his stomach under that shirt.
Horrible.
“Go ahead, journalist.”
“How long have you known you were going pro?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Interesting.
Most athletes would’ve jumped at that question.
Instead Mason looked out across the emptying court.
“Since before I knew what I wanted.”
Okay.
That surprised me.
He noticed.
“You expected some inspirational bullshit answer?”
“A little.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“You seem familiar with disappointment.”
The second it came out, I regretted it.
Not because it was mean.
Because it hit.
I saw it immediately in his face.
Tiny shift.
Tiny pause.
Then gone.
Mason stood.
“Well,” he said lightly, “this has been emotionally exhausting.”
Shit.
I leaned back in my chair. “You know you can answer honestly once in a while, right?”
“And ruin my mysterious reputation?”
“You don’t have a mysterious reputation.”
“What do I have?”
I looked him over slowly.
Too confident.
Too calm.
Too practiced.
“A very curated one.”
For the first time since meeting him, Mason didn’t have a comeback ready.
Just looked at me.
Quiet.
Something sharper settling underneath his expression.
Then Jace appeared from the tunnel holding two Gatorades.
“There you are,” he said to Mason before noticing the tension instantly. “Oh damn. Did the sexual tension argument start without me?”
“We weren’t arguing,” Mason said.
“Yet,” I corrected.
Jace pointed between us dramatically. “You two are absolutely gonna ruin each other.”
“Jace,” Mason muttered.
“No, seriously. I can feel it in the air.”
I grabbed my bag before I had to hear more of this nonsense.
“See you Monday, Reed.”
Mason leaned against the row in front of me, arms crossed now.
“Can’t wait.”
“Liar.”
That almost got another real smile out of him.
Almost.
Which somehow felt more dangerous than the fake ones.