CHAPTER SIX
MASON
I woke up on Jace’s couch with a splitting headache and Rowan Hayes still stuck in my brain.
Bad start already.
Sunlight stabbed through the apartment windows while someone in the kitchen loudly debated breakfast sandwiches like it was a political issue.
I dragged an arm over my face.
“Look who lives,” Jace announced.
“Go away.”
“No can do. I need details.”
I cracked one eye open.
Jace stood in the doorway shirtless holding coffee and looking way too awake for a Saturday morning.
“You were aggressively staring at Rowan all night,” he continued.
“I was drunk.”
“You’re still interested sober.”
Unfortunately true.
I sat up slowly, regretting every life choice immediately.
“What time is practice?”
“Three.”
“Good.”
Jace tossed me a water bottle.
I caught it one-handed.
“Did you hook up with the blonde girl?” he asked.
“No.”
His eyebrows shot up dramatically. “You turned someone down voluntarily?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“That bad, huh?”
I rubbed my face tiredly. “I’m not talking about this.”
“You like her.”
“I barely know her.”
“You notice everything she does.”
That shut me up for a second.
Because yeah.
I did.
The way she crossed her arms when annoyed.
How she looked away when she accidentally laughed.
The little silver rings she twisted when thinking.
Weird shit to notice this early.
Dangerous shit.
Jace smirked into his coffee. “Oh, you’re cooked.”
“Shut up.”
“You know what your issue is?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You thought she’d flirt back immediately.”
“I did not.”
“And now that she’s resisting, your ego’s having a spiritual awakening.”
I threw a pillow at his head.
Unfortunately he caught it.
“Violence,” he sighed. “Classic emotional repression.”
The apartment door opened suddenly.
Niko stumbled in wearing sunglasses indoors looking genuinely near death.
“Who threw up in my sink?”
Jace pointed immediately. “Tyler.”
“Traitor,” Tyler’s voice yelled weakly from somewhere down the hall.
Normal morning.
I leaned back against the couch cushions while noise filled the apartment around me.
Usually this stuff grounded me.
The team.
The routine.
But lately there was this weird restless feeling sitting under everything.
Like something was shifting slightly out of place.
My phone buzzed against the couch.
Dad.
Mood instantly ruined.
I stared at the screen for a second before answering.
“What.”
“Good game last night.”
Not:
how are you.
Not:
did you sleep.
Always basketball first.
“Thanks.”
“You rushed possessions in the third quarter.”
There it was.
I closed my eyes briefly.
“Okay.”
“You let frustration affect your pacing.”
“Got it.”
Silence stretched for a second.
Then:
“Scouts from Chicago are attending next Friday.”
Of course they were.
“Cool.”
“You should care more about this.”
Something sharp moved low in my chest immediately.
“I’ve cared about this since I was twelve.”
Dad ignored that completely.
“You’re distracted lately.”
My jaw tightened.
“Based on?”
“You’re slipping mentally.”
Interesting.
Apparently panic attacks counted as “slipping mentally” now.
Good to know.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t waste opportunities because you’re emotional.”
The line went quiet after that.
Not disconnected.
Just silent.
That was the thing about my father.
He could make silence feel like criticism.
“I have practice later,” I said finally.
“You always have practice.”
Then he hung up.
I stared at the phone for a second too long.
Across the room, Jace had gone quiet.
“Everything good?” he asked carefully.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
But everybody let me have it anyway.
That was the unspoken rule with our group:
if someone said they were fine, you didn’t push unless they broke first.
I stood abruptly.
“Need coffee.”
“Need therapy,” Niko muttered from the kitchen.
“Need you to shut the fuck up.”
The apartment erupted into noise again while I grabbed my hoodie and keys off the counter.
I needed air.
Movement.
Anything.
Thirty minutes later I was standing inside Blackthorne’s nearly empty student café waiting for caffeine strong enough to restart my organs.
And somehow—
somehow—
Rowan was there too.
Because apparently the universe enjoyed embarrassing me personally.
She sat near the windows typing aggressively on her laptop with headphones on, dark hair tied messily up like she hadn’t planned on seeing anyone today.
No makeup.
Oversized sweatshirt.
Glasses.
Fuck.
That hit harder than it should’ve.
She looked softer like this.
Less sharp around the edges.
More dangerous honestly.
Before I could decide whether to leave or pretend I didn’t see her, Rowan glanced up.
Saw me.
Her expression shifted immediately.
“Oh,” she mouthed quietly to herself.
Rude.
I walked over anyway carrying my coffee.
“You stalking me now?”
Rowan pulled one headphone off slowly.
“You’re the one standing at my table.”
“Good point.”
She looked annoyingly good for someone who probably got four hours of sleep.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I dropped into the chair across from her before she could object.
“What are you writing?”
“An exposé on emotionally exhausting basketball players.”
“Hope there’s a section about my jawline.”
That got an eye roll instead of a laugh.
Disappointing.
Rowan studied me for a second over the top of her laptop.
Then:
“You hungover?”
“A little.”
“You deserve it.”
Fair.
I took a sip of coffee while she kept typing.
No awkwardness either.
Weirdly comfortable silence settled between us almost immediately.
Like we’d done this before.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the café windows while students drifted in and out around us.
Rowan suddenly pushed her coffee toward me without looking up.
I frowned. “What’s this?”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m not drinking your coffee.”
“You already look dramatic enough. Just take it.”
I stared at her for a second.
Then took the cup.
Our fingers brushed briefly.
Tiny contact.
Still felt it stupidly hard.
Rowan noticed too because her typing paused for half a second before continuing.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I took a sip.
“Jesus Christ,” I said immediately. “This tastes awful.”
“It’s black coffee.”
“It tastes like battery acid.”
“You drink tequila straight.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
I pointed at her cup seriously. “This feels personal.”
That finally got a laugh out of her.
Small.
Quick.
But real.
And fuck if that sound didn’t do something weird to my chest.