CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROWAN
I told myself I wasn’t going to look for him.
That was the rule.
Not written anywhere. Not spoken. Just something I’d started enforcing after realizing that Mason Reed had somehow become… noise in my system.
The kind you notice when it disappears.
Which was stupid.
Because nothing about him should’ve mattered outside of interviews and practice coverage.
Nothing.
“Stop overthinking your face,” Serena said as I adjusted my hair in the reflection of my laptop screen.
“I’m not overthinking my face.”
“You are absolutely overthinking your face.”
“I’m literally just tying my hair.”
Serena leaned back in her chair, watching me like she’d already decided this was entertaining. “You’re going to the arena today, right?”
“Yes.”
“Because of work.”
“Yes.”
“Not because Mason Reed might exist in your proximity.”
I paused.
That pause betrayed me.
Serena smiled immediately.
“I hate you,” I said.
“No you don’t. You just hate that I notice things before you admit them to yourself.”
I grabbed my bag. “I’m leaving.”
“Take notes,” she called after me. “On your emotional regression.”
I flipped her off without looking.
The arena always felt louder than it needed to be, even when it was emptying out.
Basketball courts had a way of holding energy like it lingered in the floor.
Practice had just ended.
Players were scattered—some still shooting, some talking, some already halfway into their post-practice chaos.
I should’ve been focused on my interview notes.
I wasn’t.
Because I saw him immediately.
Mason.
Towel around his neck, hair slightly damp, moving off court with that same controlled pace like nothing ever really rushed him unless he allowed it.
Jace was beside him, talking animatedly about something I couldn’t hear.
I told myself I wouldn’t look at him directly.
That lasted maybe three seconds.
Because then Mason slowed.
Just slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for me to.
His eyes landed on me.
Then shifted.
Not away.
Not fully.
Just… moved.
To the person standing beside me.
Caleb.
“Hey,” Caleb said, holding up two coffees like it was nothing important. “I grabbed you one.”
“For me?” I asked.
“Yeah. You looked like you were going to bite someone yesterday. Thought caffeine might help.”
Serena, standing a few steps behind us, made a sound that was way too loud to be subtle.
I ignored her.
“Thanks,” I said to Caleb.
His fingers brushed mine when he handed it over.
Normal.
Probably normal.
Except I was suddenly aware of Mason still standing ten meters away.
Still watching.
Not obvious.
Not direct.
Just there.
Caleb leaned slightly closer. “You good for the interview segment later?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Mason finally looked away.
Not casually.
Not like he’d lost interest.
Like he had to force it.
That detail shouldn’t have mattered.
It did anyway.
I didn’t see Mason again until I was halfway through reviewing notes near the media desk.
But I felt him before I saw him.
That was the problem now.
Not sight.
Awareness.
“Hayes.”
His voice came from behind me.
I turned.
He was closer than I expected.
Still in practice gear. Still slightly out of breath. Still looking like he hadn’t fully decided what expression to wear yet.
“You’ve been quiet,” I said.
“You’ve been missing things,” he replied.
I frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” he said too quickly.
That was new.
Mason Reed didn’t do “too quickly.”
I studied him properly.
Something was off.
Not physically.
Behaviourally.
“You okay?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His jaw tightened slightly. “Yeah.”
Too fast again.
Lie.
I leaned against the table. “You’re worse at this than you think.”
“At what?”
“Pretending nothing’s happening.”
That got him to look at me properly.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Just… sharp.
“I’m not pretending anything,” he said.
I nodded slowly. “Sure.”
He exhaled through his nose like he didn’t like that answer.
Then his eyes flicked briefly toward Caleb, who was talking to someone across the room.
Not subtle.
Not accidental.
I noticed.
Of course I did.
“You’re busy,” Mason said suddenly.
I blinked. “What?”
“With him,” he added.
There was no tone in it.
Which somehow made it worse.
I straightened slightly. “No.”
Simple answer.
Clean.
Should’ve ended it.
It didn’t.
Because he didn’t move.
Just stood there like he was processing something he didn’t want to name.
“That your type?” he asked.
I almost laughed. “You don’t know my type.”
A pause.
Then:
“Do I need to?”
That landed wrong.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just wrong.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Neither of us spoke for a moment too long.
Then I said, carefully, “What is this?”
His expression shifted immediately.
Subtle.
Controlled again.
“Nothing,” he said.
But it didn’t match the question he just asked.
Or the way he was still standing here.
Or the way he had clearly been watching me for longer than he wanted to admit.
I pushed off the table. “You don’t ask questions like that for ‘nothing.’”
“I wasn’t asking anything,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
He paused.
Then corrected himself slightly:
“It came out wrong.”
That was the first honest thing he’d said in a while.
It made everything worse.
Because now it wasn’t confidence.
It was reaction.
Unfiltered.
Mason ran a hand through his hair, finally looking away.
“I’ve got practice review,” he said.
But he didn’t leave.
Not immediately.
Like something was still unsaid.
I should’ve let it go.
I didn’t.
“You’ve been weird all day,” I said.
“I’m not weird.”
“You are right now.”
Silence.
Then:
“Maybe I just don’t like distractions.”
That should’ve been casual.
It wasn’t.
It was aimed.
Even if he didn’t fully mean it that way.
I crossed my arms. “I’m a distraction now?”
His eyes snapped back to mine.
That was fast.
Too fast again.
“You’re not—” he started.
Stopped.
Restarted.
“You’re not the problem.”
But he didn’t explain what I was instead.
That mattered more.
A shout from across the arena interrupted whatever that was becoming.
“Reed!”
Coach.
Saved him.
Or saved me.
Depending on how you looked at it.
Mason stepped back slightly. “I’ll see you.”
Not a question.
Like always.
Then he walked away.
And I stood there longer than I should’ve.
Because something about that conversation didn’t feel like an ending.
It felt like the start of something neither of us had agreed to yet.
And worse—
I wasn’t sure I wanted it to stop.