Marcus Webb is officially back on the active roster, and the entire team feels the shift.
He was captain before the injury—the guy everyone looked to when games got tight, the voice in the huddle that could settle nerves or ignite fire depending on what was needed. His return changes the energy in ways I can't quite name, a subtle rebalancing of power dynamics that makes my stomach churn every time I catch him watching me from across the gym.
I handle his return the way I handle everything now: professionally, detached, buried in logistics. Roster paperwork filed with the athletic department. Equipment reassignments coordinated with the training staff. Schedule adjustments submitted to Coach Davis for approval. My clipboard is full and my face is neutral and if my hands shake slightly when I initial his medical clearance forms, no one needs to know.
Practice ends at five, but I stay late to inventory the equipment room—a task I've been putting off for weeks and suddenly can't wait to complete. The gym empties slowly, voices fading, doors slamming, until the only sounds are my footsteps and the scratch of my pen on paper.
"Hiding from someone?"
I spin around so fast I nearly drop my clipboard. Ethan stands in the doorway of the equipment room, shoulder against the frame, that half-smile playing on his lips. He's still in his practice gear, sweat drying on his temples, looking far too comfortable for someone who should have left twenty minutes ago.
"Working," I correct him, turning back to the shelves of basketballs. "Some of us have actual responsibilities."
"Some of us wanted to see you alone." He pushes off the doorframe and moves closer, his footsteps quiet on the concrete floor. "You've been avoiding me since the game."
"I've been busy since the game."
"Liar." He's right behind me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "You've been avoiding me since Marcus showed up in that tunnel looking like someone kicked his puppy."
I set down my clipboard and turn to face him, which is a mistake because now we're inches apart in the dim light of the equipment room. His eyes are dark and intent, fixed on my face like he's trying to read something written beneath my skin.
"I don't want to talk about Marcus."
"Good." He steps closer, and my back hits the shelf of basketballs. "Neither do I."
His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his fingers trailing along my jaw in a way that makes my breath catch embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. We shouldn't be doing this—not here, not now, not without cameras to justify the proximity.
"This isn't part of the arrangement," I whisper, but I don't move away.
"I know." His thumb traces my lower lip, feather-light. "Tell me to stop."
The words won't come. My hands find his chest instead, feeling his heartbeat rapid beneath my palms, and something shifts in his expression—something hungry and hopeful and terrifying.
"Harper." My name sounds different in his mouth, rougher, like it costs him something to say it. "I'm going to kiss you now. Not for cameras, not for Vance, not for anyone but us."
He leans in, his breath warm against my lips, and I close my eyes—
"What the fuck is this?"
Marcus's voice shatters the moment like a rock through glass. My eyes fly open to find him standing in the doorway, face twisted with something between fury and disgust, his hands already curling into fists at his sides.
Ethan doesn't step back, doesn't remove his hand from my face, just turns his head slowly to look at Marcus. "This is a private conversation."
"In the equipment room?" Marcus stalks forward, every line of his body radiating aggression. "With your hands all over my ex-girlfriend?"
"She's not yours anymore." Ethan finally moves, positioning himself between me and Marcus. "You made sure of that."
"I made sure of that?" Marcus laughs, ugly and sharp. "That's fucking rich coming from you. You've been sniffing around her since the day you transferred."
"Maybe because I actually give a shit about her."
They're chest to chest now, faces inches apart, and I can see the exact moment Marcus's control snaps. His hands shove hard against Ethan's shoulders, sending him stumbling back into the equipment shelves. Basketballs scatter across the floor as Ethan catches his balance and surges forward, grabbing Marcus by his shirt.
"Stop!" I force myself between them, palms flat against both their chests. "Both of you, stop it right now!"
They don't move, still glaring at each other over my head, muscles coiled and ready. I can feel their hearts pounding beneath my hands, can feel the violence humming in the air like electricity.
"I said stop." My voice comes out harder than I intended, sharp enough to cut. "You want to get suspended before the tournament? You want to explain to Coach why two of his starters are throwing punches in the equipment room?"
Something in my tone penetrates the testosterone fog. Marcus steps back first, chest heaving, his eyes still burning with barely contained rage. Ethan follows a moment later, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
"This isn't over," Marcus breathes, pointing at Ethan.
"Anytime you want to finish it." Ethan's voice is dangerously calm.
"Get out." I'm looking at both of them, but Marcus is the one who moves. He gives me one last look—hurt and anger and something that might be betrayal—before he turns and walks out, his footsteps echoing through the empty gym.
Ethan reaches for me. "Harper—"
"Go." I step away from his touch. "Please. I need a minute."
He hesitates, searching my face for something I'm not sure I can give him. Then he nods, squeezes my shoulder once, and follows Marcus out.
I stand in the equipment room surrounded by scattered basketballs, trying to remember how to breathe. The almost-kiss burns on my lips, phantom sensation of something that never quite happened. My hands are shaking and my chest aches and I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore.
"Harper."
Marcus's voice makes me jump. He's back, standing in the doorway again, but the rage has drained from his face leaving something worse behind—exhaustion, resignation, the hollow look of someone who's given up fighting.
"So you hated him so much you started dating him." His laugh is bitter and empty. "That's convenient."
"Marcus, let me explain—"
"I'm not mad about us anymore." He cuts me off, holding up his hand. "I'm over that, I've had time to process, whatever. I'm not here to win you back."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want you to know why I'm angry." He steps closer, and I can see the hurt beneath the surface, barely contained. "I'm mad because you made me feel crazy, Harper. Every time I asked about you two, you said nothing was there. You looked me in the eyes and told me I was imagining things."
My throat tightens. "Marcus—"
"You lied to my face." His voice cracks slightly. "For months, you lied. And I believed you because I wanted to, because I loved you, because I thought we had something real. But it was never real for you, was it?"
I don't know how to answer. I don't know what the truth even is anymore—what parts were real, what parts were fake, what parts I've been lying to myself about since this whole mess started.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I mean it completely.
He stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. Then he shakes his head, turns, and walks away without another word.
I stand frozen in the equipment room, guilt and confusion warring in my chest. He's right—I did lie to him. Not about the fake relationship, but about everything before it. About the tension I felt every time Ethan walked into a room. About the way my body responded to his presence even when my mind screamed to stay away.
I lied because admitting the truth would have meant admitting something I wasn't ready to face.
Footsteps sound behind me, softer than Marcus's, more hesitant. I know who it is without turning around, can feel his presence like a physical weight in the air.
"What did he say to you?" Ethan's voice is quiet, careful.
I don't turn around. I'm not sure I can look at him right now without everything spilling out—the guilt, the confusion, the terrifying realization that maybe none of this has been fake for a very long time.