CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROWAN
I didn’t see Mason for three days.
Not properly.
Which should’ve been normal.
It wasn’t.
Because I kept expecting him to appear where he usually did—outside the café, at practice entrances, in the middle of some loud group of people like he belonged to the noise.
But he wasn’t there.
And I hated that I noticed.
“Okay,” Serena said, sliding into the seat across from me in the library. “You’ve been staring at your screen for twenty minutes without typing anything.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re buffering.”
I clicked my pen once. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I ignored her and forced my eyes back to the article draft.
Blackthorne basketball mid-season momentum. Draft projections. Team dynamics.
Normal.
Boring.
Safe.
Except it wasn’t safe anymore because every time I wrote the word Reed, my brain did something irritatingly unprofessional.
Serena leaned forward. “You haven’t seen him since Saturday, right?”
“I don’t track him.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I hated her.
“Fine,” I muttered. “No.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting.”
“It is when you start acting like a ghost got deleted from your routine.”
“I don’t have routines involving him.”
Serena smiled slowly like she knew something I didn’t.
“That’s worse,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t like the way that felt true.
I saw him again on Thursday.
Not in a controlled space.
Not in practice.
Not in anything official.
In the hallway outside the athletic study center.
And he didn’t see me first.
That was the first weird thing.
Mason was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, not talking, not performing, not surrounded by noise.
Just… still.
His thumb paused mid-scroll like he’d forgotten what he was looking at.
Then he exhaled sharply and shoved the phone into his pocket.
I slowed without meaning to.
He looked up.
And for a second—too long to be casual—he just stared at me like he was recalibrating something.
Then:
“Hayes.”
My name sounded different when he said it like that.
Less teasing.
More… tired.
“You’ve been avoiding me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“No.”
That was immediate.
Too immediate.
I narrowed my eyes. “That was a fast answer.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what?”
A pause.
Then: “Everything.”
That wasn’t an answer.
That was a wall.
I should’ve left it.
Instead I stepped closer.
“Did I do something?”
That made him finally look at me properly.
Really look.
Like the question annoyed him in a different way than usual.
“No,” he said again. Quieter this time.
Silence.
Hallway noise faded in and out around us—footsteps, distant voices, doors opening.
Neither of us moved.
Then he shifted his weight off the wall.
“You always assume things are about you,” he said.
That stung more than it should’ve.
I held his gaze. “You’re the one who disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear.”
“You did.”
A beat.
Then he laughed once—short, humorless.
“Three days, Rowan.”
“So?”
“So that’s normal for everyone else.”
Not for you.
He didn’t say it.
But I heard it anyway.
Something in my chest tightened.
I crossed my arms tighter. “Right. Sorry for noticing.”
That landed wrong.
I saw it immediately in his expression.
A flicker.
Gone.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“What?”
“Act like I’m the problem.”
I let out a short breath. “You are the one acting weird.”
“I’m not acting anything.”
“You are right now.”
He stepped forward slightly.
Not aggressive.
Just closer.
Instantly, everything in the hallway felt smaller.
“I had shit going on,” he said.
“Okay.”
That should’ve ended it.
It didn’t.
Because he didn’t move away.
And I didn’t either.
“What kind of shit?” I asked.
His eyes flicked briefly over my face.
Like he was deciding whether to answer honestly.
Then:
“Family.”
That word changed something.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
I softened slightly before I could stop it.
“Oh.”
A pause.
Then I added, quieter: “Is it bad?”
His mouth twitched like he almost smiled at that.
Almost.
“You asking because you care or because you’re writing notes?”
I frowned. “Neither.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not.”
He studied me again.
Longer this time.
Then nodded once like he accepted something he didn’t fully like.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s bad.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
Instead I said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Immediately regretted it.
Because Mason went still.
Not defensive.
Not annoyed.
Just… still.
Like the question didn’t fit anywhere in his usual world.
“I don’t talk about it,” he said.
“Right.”
Another pause.
Then, unexpectedly:
“You’d make it worse anyway.”
That should’ve pissed me off.
It didn’t.
It just sat there between us.
Heavy.
“I probably would,” I said honestly.
That surprised him.
I saw it.
“You agree?” he asked.
“I’m not good at… that,” I gestured vaguely. “Feelings.”
A faint exhale from him.
Almost a laugh again.
“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”
That should’ve been a dig.
It wasn’t said like one.
It was… observation.
Same category I used.
Same problem.
A student walked past us, brushing Mason’s shoulder accidentally.
He didn’t react.
But I noticed he moved slightly closer to me after.
Not conscious.
Just instinct.
That did something irritating to my focus.
I stepped back first.
Bad decision.
Instantly, the space between us felt louder.
Mason watched it happen.
Of course he did.
“Rowan,” he said.
I looked up.
He hesitated.
Actually hesitated.
Then:
“You still coming to practice tomorrow?”
It wasn’t casual.
Not really.
I shrugged. “If I have time.”
That was a lie.
He knew it.
I knew he knew it.
But he just nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’ll come.”
Then he walked past me down the hallway.
And this time—
I didn’t know why it felt like I was the one being left behind.