CHAPTER SIXTY
NEW YORK CITY
The city didn’t feel like a destination.
It felt like noise that had been waiting for us.
Coach called it “orientation day,” but nobody moved like it was routine.
Everything was too structured.
Too watched.
Too intentional.
Mason stood near the edge of the training facility hallway, rolling his wrist like he could shake the pressure off physically.
It didn’t work.
Luca leaned beside him.
“You good?” he asked.
Mason didn’t answer immediately.
Then:
“No.”
Luca nodded like that was acceptable.
Because it was.
Across the room, Rowan was already with the media team.
Laptop open.
Head down.
Focused in a way that looked professional from a distance.
But Mason knew better now.
That wasn’t distance.
That was control.
Or the attempt at it.
Their eyes met once.
Just once.
No wave.
No smile.
Just acknowledgment.
Then it was gone again.
Like it had to be.
ROWAN
The assignment brief sat heavier than it should’ve in my hands.
Final feature.
Mason Reed.
Not a draft anymore.
Not notes.
Final piece.
Meaning: this is what people will believe.
Mia wasn’t here.
Serena wasn’t here.
It was just me and the version of him they wanted me to translate into words.
The interviewer from before passed behind me.
“You’ll want accuracy,” he said casually.
I didn’t look up.
“I always do.”
But accuracy wasn’t the problem anymore.
Interpretation was.
Because people didn’t read truth.
They read framing.
My phone buzzed.
Mason.
Mason:
First session starts in 10.
I looked up slightly.
Saw him across the room stretching.
Not looking at me.
Not avoiding me.
Just existing in the same space like we had agreed to pretend we could.
I typed:
Rowan:
I know.
Then paused.
Added:
Rowan:
Don’t think too much.
Three dots.
Stopped.
Started again.
Mason:
That’s literally impossible now.
MASON
First session was worse than practice back home.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Because everything here had weight attached to it.
Scouts watching.
Media presence.
Staff evaluating.
Even silence felt like it was being recorded.
Coach stood at the side, arms crossed.
No instructions.
Just observation.
Which meant we were being tested immediately.
Luca missed an early read.
Coach didn’t react.
That was worse than correction.
Mason drove, passed, scored.
Still didn’t feel clean.
Because part of him was aware of something else entirely:
Rowan was watching.
Not emotionally.
Professionally.
But still watching.
That changed how everything felt.
ROWAN
Writing started slower than I expected.
Not because I didn’t know what to say.
Because I knew too much.
Mason wasn’t a headline.
He wasn’t a narrative.
He was… layered.
And that wasn’t something people liked reading.
Mia’s words came back to me:
“You’re inside the story now.”
I hated how right she was.
My phone buzzed.
Mason.
Mason:
Coach is already frustrated.
I stared at that.
Then replied:
Rowan:
He’s always frustrated.
Three dots.
Mason:
Not like this.
That made me pause.
Because I knew what that meant.
Pressure wasn’t just external here.
It was internal too.
MASON
Coach pulled me aside after session.
Not angry.
Worse.
Calm.
“You’re splitting attention,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I didn’t argue this time.
Because it was starting to feel true.
Coach continued:
“You don’t survive NYC by dividing your focus.”
A pause.
“And right now, you are divided.”
I didn’t need him to explain further.
We both knew what he meant.
Rowan.
Not as distraction.
As presence that changed rhythm.
ROWAN
Bennett reviewed my draft outline over my shoulder.
“Be careful,” she said.
“With what?”
“With tone.”
That wasn’t helpful.
That was everything.
Tone was perception.
Perception was narrative.
Narrative was control.
My phone buzzed again.
Mason.
Mason:
I feel like I’m being watched differently here.
I looked up briefly.
Saw him across the gym again.
Same space.
Different weight.
I typed:
Rowan:
You are.
Pause.
Then:
Rowan:
So am I.
MASON
Night came too fast.
Everything here was fast.
Too fast.
Luca left early.
Coach stayed behind talking to staff.
Mason didn’t move.
Rowan was still in the media room.
Across the building.
Same structure.
Different sides.
He finally texted her.
Mason:
This doesn’t feel like home.
Three dots.
Longer than usual.
Rowan:
It’s not.
Pause.
Rowan:
It’s a test.
He leaned back slightly.
That word again.
Test.
ROWAN
I finished writing the final paragraph of my draft at 11:42 p.m.
Then stopped.
Because I didn’t like it.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was too clean.
Mason Reed wasn’t clean.
Nothing here was.
My phone buzzed.
Mason.
Mason:
Are you going to write it honestly?
I stared at that.
Because that was the question underneath everything.
Not journalism.
Not basketball.
Honesty.
I typed:
Rowan:
I don’t know yet.
Then added:
Rowan:
But I think I have to.
FINAL SCENE
They crossed paths outside the facility entrance.
Not planned.
Not avoided.
Just timing.
Mason stopped.
Rowan stopped.
A few feet apart.
No cameras directly on them.
But enough people nearby that it mattered.
He spoke first.
“Everything feels louder here,” he said.
She nodded.
“It’s not louder,” she replied. “It’s just closer.”
Silence.
Not awkward.
Just loaded.
Mason exhaled slowly.
“You writing it yet?”
“Almost.”
He nodded.
A pause.
Then:
“Don’t make me sound like a problem.”
Rowan looked at him properly now.
For the first time that day.
“I’m not writing a problem,” she said.
Another pause.
“I’m writing what’s happening.”
That landed differently.
He didn’t argue.
Because he couldn’t.
Not honestly.
Luca called from inside the building.
Coach shouted something in the background.
New York kept moving around them.
But for a moment—
they didn’t.
Mason nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Then:
“Just… be careful with it.”
Rowan held his gaze for a second longer than usual.
“I am.”
Then she turned.
And walked inside.
Not away.
Just forward.