CHAPTER TWELVE
MASON
I noticed she wasn’t there before I admitted I was looking for her.
That was the problem.
Practice hadn’t even started properly yet, and my eyes had already drifted to the media section out of habit.
Empty seat.
Same row she usually sat in.
No notebook. No camera bag. No quiet presence pretending she wasn’t watching everything.
Nothing.
I looked away immediately.
Too fast.
“Reed,” Coach barked. “Feet moving. You’re late on reads again.”
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t.
I ran the drill again.
Wrong timing. Half step off.
That never happens.
Ball back in.
I drive. Pass should’ve been clean. It’s not.
Coach whistle cuts sharp through the gym.
“Stop.”
Silence hits harder than noise.
Coach steps forward.
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“No,” he says flatly. “You’re drifting.”
I don’t answer because there’s nothing clean to say.
Practice restarts slower after that, but it doesn’t fix anything.
My body knows the movements.
My head doesn’t sync.
And I hate that I know why.
Because every time I look up—
that seat is still empty.
Jace jogs past mid-drill, low voice cutting just for me.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t believe it.
Of course he doesn’t.
Neither do I.
After practice, locker room noise fills the space like usual.
Too loud. Too normal.
I sit on the bench tying my shoes slower than I should.
Niko drops beside me. “You’ve been off all day.”
“I’m tired.”
“Liar.”
Jace leans over from across the room. “He’s been like this since warmups.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you’re waiting on something that didn’t show.”
My hands pause.
Just for a second.
Then I continue tying my shoe.
“Shut up,” I say.
But it lands anyway.
Because I did notice.
And that’s the part that sticks.
Not emotion.
Not explanation.
Just awareness.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I already know.
Rowan.
you usually stare at empty seats that hard or is this a new hobby?
I stare at it.
Then reply:
you weren’t there
Three dots appear instantly.
observant
I exhale through my nose.
where were you
Long pause.
Too long.
working
That should’ve ended it.
It doesn’t.
My thumb stays over the screen longer than it should.
Jace clocks it instantly.
“You’re texting her,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“You are absolutely texting her.”
I ignore him.
Type:
you missed practice
Her reply comes fast.
didn’t know attendance was emotionally monitored now
I almost smile.
Almost.
Stop.
Because that’s the problem.
This isn’t supposed to matter.
But it does.
More than it should.
I lock my phone.
“Film in twenty,” Coach calls. “Don’t be late.”
“Yeah.”
I grab my bag.
But I’m still thinking about the empty seat.
Still thinking about how quickly I noticed it.
And how wrong it feels that I did.
Jace walks past me on the way out, lowering his voice.
“You’re cooked.”
“I’m fine.”
He laughs once.
“You’re not even close.”
That night, I don’t sleep properly.
Again.
Not because of practice.
Not because of pressure.
Because I keep seeing an empty seat in a gym I’ve been in a thousand times.
And for the first time—
it doesn’t feel empty.
It feels wrong.
Like something is missing that shouldn’t be.