CHAPTER NINE
ROWAN
I shouldn’t have left it.
The coffee cup, I mean.
But going back felt worse than just abandoning it, so I kept walking.
Rain had softened into that annoying in-between drizzle that doesn’t fully commit to being weather. My hoodie was already damp at the shoulders by the time I reached the street crossing.
Mason Reed stayed in my head anyway.
Which was worse.
Because nothing about that café conversation had felt clean anymore.
Not him.
Not me.
Not the silence.
Especially not the silence.
My phone buzzed again in my pocket.
Serena:
you alive or did reed finally say something stupid enough to kill you emotionally
I typed while walking:
he’s more complicated than stupid
Then immediately regretted it.
Three dots appeared instantly.
excuse me???
I locked my phone without replying.
Because that was the problem.
Mason Reed wasn’t supposed to become complicated.
He was supposed to be simple.
Arrogant athlete.
Campus distraction.
Easy article subject.
Not… whatever that was.
The way he’d gone quiet when I mentioned his dad.
The way he didn’t answer immediately half the time like he was filtering himself in real time.
The way he looked at things like he was always slightly elsewhere.
And the worst part?
He noticed everything back.
Not in a performative way.
In a quiet, automatic way.
Like he couldn’t help it.
I shoved my hands into my hoodie pocket and kept walking faster.
—
I didn’t see him again until Monday.
And I told myself I was fine with that.
I wasn’t.
Blackthorne Athletics building always smelled like money trying too hard.
Clean floors. Glass walls. Expensive banners. Everything polished like image mattered more than air.
It did.
Rowan Hayes, student journalist, standing outside practice court doors with a notebook and a camera bag that suddenly felt heavier than it should’ve.
“Try not to look like you’re attending a funeral,” Serena said beside me.
“I am attending a controlled emotional disaster,” I corrected.
She grinned. “Same thing.”
Inside, the court was already alive.
Sneakers squeaking.
Balls hitting hardwood.
Coaches yelling like volume alone improved performance.
And there he was.
Mason.
Of course.
He was mid-drill, moving fast, sharp cuts across the court like he was trying to outrun something invisible. Sweat already darkening his shirt.
He didn’t look up.
Not immediately.
That was new.
Usually he found me instantly.
That thought landed wrong.
“Rowan,” Daniel called from behind me. “Good, you’re here. Start taking notes on warmups.”
“I hate warmups.”
“I don’t care.”
Classic journalism leadership.
I stepped closer to the baseline, opening my notebook.
Serena leaned in slightly. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you’re not thinking about him.”
“I’m not thinking about him.”
A basketball slammed hard against the floor nearby.
I looked up without meaning to.
Mason caught the rebound, spun, passed it clean across court.
Didn’t look at me once.
Not even a glance.
That should’ve been normal.
It wasn’t.
Something small tightened in my chest.
Stupid.
I wrote something down aggressively just to have movement in my hands.
Practice continued.
Drills shifted.
Groups rotated.
Still nothing.
No eye contact.
No stupid smirk.
No “hey journalist” across the court.
Just Mason Reed doing what he always did—perfect, controlled, efficient.
Except now it felt pointed.
Like absence had weight.
“Okay,” Serena muttered. “This is officially weird.”
“What is?”
“He hasn’t looked at you once.”
“Why would he?”
Serena gave me a look.
I ignored it.
But my attention kept drifting back anyway.
Because I was used to being noticed by him now.
Apparently.
That was new and apparently addictive.
A whistle blew sharply.
Practice paused.
Players broke off into groups, grabbing water, laughing, yelling.
Finally—
Mason turned.
Not toward me.
Not directly.
Just shifting his gaze across the court.
Passing over everything like he was searching for something and refusing to admit it.
Then his eyes landed on me.
And stopped.
No smile.
No smirk.
Just… still.
Like the rest of the gym didn’t exist for a second.
My grip tightened on my pen.
There it was again.
That pull.
The awareness.
The problem.
He didn’t move toward me.
Didn’t acknowledge me.
Just held it for a beat too long.
Then looked away first.
And that—
that did something worse than attention ever had.
Because ignoring me wasn’t distance.
It was choice.
“Rowan,” Daniel said again, sharper this time. “Focus.”
“I am focused.”
I wasn’t.
Mason grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed it slowly, and took a long drink without looking anywhere near me again.
Like I wasn’t even in the building.
Like I was just air.
And I hated how much I noticed that.
Practice ended an hour later.
Players scattered.
Noise rose.
Everything loosened.
Except me.
I stayed near the baseline pretending to check my notes while Serena wandered off to talk to someone from the paper.
I should’ve left.
I didn’t.
Because Mason still hadn’t come over.
Which was ridiculous.
Because he always—
“Hayes.”
His voice hit from behind me.
Not loud.
Close.
I turned.
He was standing there now, towel over his shoulder, hair damp, breathing slightly heavy.
Up close again.
Too close again.
Except this time, something was different.
Less ease.
More contained.
“You didn’t say anything during practice,” I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked over my face.
Then paused.
Like he was deciding something.
“I noticed,” he said.
That shouldn’t have mattered.
It did.
I crossed my arms. “Busy day?”
“Yeah.”
Pause.
Longer than usual.
Then, quieter:
“You always this quiet when you’re annoyed?”
I blinked once. “I’m not annoyed.”
A faint shift in his mouth.
Not a smile.
Almost.
“You are,” he said anyway.
I should’ve argued.
Instead I said, “You ignored me.”
That landed differently than I intended.
I saw it in his expression immediately.
Small flicker.
Gone fast.
“I didn’t,” he said.
“You didn’t look at me once.”
“I was focused.”
“On what?”
Another pause.
This one longer.
Then:
“Not you.”
That should’ve been fine.
It wasn’t.
Silence stretched between us.
Crowd noise faded again into background.
Mason shifted his towel over his shoulder.
Something in his jaw tightened slightly like he regretted saying that out loud.
I studied him.
Really studied him.
Not athlete Mason.
Not party Mason.
Not interview Mason.
Just him.
Tired eyes.
Controlled posture.
Constant restraint like everything in him was held in place by habit.
“You’re bad at lying,” I said quietly.
“I wasn’t lying.”
“Sure.”
He exhaled once through his nose.
Then, unexpectedly:
“You left your coffee.”
That surprised me.
I frowned slightly. “What?”
“At the café,” he said. “You left it.”
I went still.
Because I hadn’t expected him to remember that.
Or care.
“It was empty,” I said.
“I know.”
Pause.
Then he added:
“I kept thinking you’d come back for it.”
That did something strange to the air.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just… there.
Between us.
I didn’t know what to say to that.
So I said the first thing that came:
“That’s weird.”
A faint half-shrug from him.
“Yeah.”
Silence again.
But different now.
Less distance.
More awareness.
He stepped back slightly first this time.
Not leaving.
Just creating space before it got worse.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
It never was with him.
“Yeah,” I said.
He hesitated for half a second like he wanted to say something else.
Didn’t.
Then walked away.
And somehow—
that felt louder than everything else in the gym.