Ethan’s POV
The hallway is crowded like hell. Lockers slam, someone laughs too loud three feet away, but I can't hear anything except my own heartbeat and the words I'm about to say.
Harper stands in front of me, eyes searching my face for an explanation I can't give. She's wearing my hoodie, the gray one she stole months ago, and I'm about to destroy the only good thing I've ever had.
Do it now, coward—make it believable, make it brutal, make her hate you so completely that they'll never be able to use her against you again.
"I can't do this anymore." My voice comes out flat, rehearsed, every word tasting like poison on my tongue. "You're a distraction I can't afford, Harper. You always have been."
Her face crumples before something harder takes its place. "What are you talking about? Ethan, if something's wrong…"
Everything is fucking wrong, and I want to grab her and tell her the truth, but I can still hear their voices—calm, reasonable, terrifying.
Her family has a lot to lose, and reputations are fragile things that dangerous rumors can shatter overnight.
"You're not what I want anymore." I force my face to stay blank even though my chest is caving in. "You're too clingy, too needy, too much. I need someone who doesn't suffocate me."
"Please." Her voice cracks, and something inside me dies watching the tears spill down her cheeks. "At least explain why you're doing this…"
You're perfect, you're everything, and that's exactly why they chose you to control me.
"There's nothing to explain." I turn away because if I keep looking at her, I'll shatter completely. "I never loved you the way you loved me. We're done."
I walk away and every step feels like concrete. I hear her call my name once, twice, and it takes everything not to turn around. Not to confess that I love her more than basketball, more than my future, more than anything. More than my life.
But loving her is exactly why I have to let her go.
I wake up gasping and covered in sweat, heart fucking hammering in my chest.
That damn dream again… Well, shit.
The hotel ceiling stares back at me, unfamiliar and cold. Clock says 5:47 AM, and my chest aches with the phantom pain of a memory I've relived a thousand times. Three years of that dream on repeat.
Her face crumpling. Her voice cracking. Her stunning emerald eyes are full of tear’s crystals. The sound of my own footsteps walking away from everything I ever wanted. Away from her.
I did it to protect her.
I've told myself that shit every single day since. Doesn't make it hurt less, though.
I didn't know she would be here. When my agent pushed for this transfer, it was about the program, the coaching staff, the path to the draft. Not the girl I left behind.
I spent three years convincing myself I'd never see her again. That she'd moved on, found someone better than a douchebag like me, forgot I existed.
But when I walked into that gym yesterday and saw her standing there with her clipboard and her severe ponytail and her walls built so high I could barely recognize her…the world stopped.
She's here. Right in front of me.
After years of carrying her hatred as the price of her safety, the universe dropped her back into my life. Second chance sign? Redemption arc downloading? Payment for sins by being constantly near her without any right to her? Look but don’t touch?
Fuck, If only I knew.
But what I know for sure—I'm not wasting this chance. Still, I need to play it right.
Practice starts at two, but I arrive at one. The gym is quiet—just the squeak of my shoes on hardwood and the echo of the ball hitting the floor. I run drills alone until my muscles burn and my mind goes quiet.
On the court, everything is simple.
No complicated history. Just the ball, the basket, and the space between. This is where I become someone else—the player who can carry his family out of poverty. The killer. The machine.
By the time the team filters in, I'm drenched in sweat and Harper arrives at exactly 1:55. Clipboard in hand, perfect ponytail of that gorgeous dark auburn hair I desperately want to feel in my hand again, face arranged into careful blankness.
I jog over during the first water break. "Hey."
"Your practice jersey is in locker fourteen." She says flatly but doesn't look up. "Equipment pickup at the storage room, east entrance."
"Come on, Harper." I step closer, lowering my voice. "It's me."
"I'm aware." Her pen keeps moving. "Anything else regarding onboarding?"
I stare at her, searching for any trace of the girl I used to know—the one who laughed too loud at my stupid jokes, who tangled her fingers in mine under cafeteria tables, who looked at me like I hung the moon and stars just for her. That girl is gone, buried beneath ice and professionalism and three years of silence I created.
"You've changed."
She finally meets my eyes—professional emptiness that cuts deeper than hatred. "People do that. Three years is a long time."
"Maybe we could talk later. At last, we were—"
"There's nothing to talk about." She stands, clipboard pressed against her chest. "I'm your team manager, you're my assignment. That's the extent of our relationship."
She walks away but I watch the rigid line of her shoulders and I know she's not as unaffected as she pretends. Then Coach calls for offensive sets and I’m forced to throw myself into drills—screens, cuts, pick-and-rolls that leave defenders stumbling.
For thirty minutes nothing exists except the rhythm of the game.
But between plays, my eyes keep drifting to the sideline. Harper sits on the bench, tracking stats with mechanical precision, completely indifferent. Except I catch her watching me.
It happens during a fast break—I finish with a reverse layup that draws whistles from the coaching staff and when I land, her eyes are on me. Not her clipboard. Me.
The second our gazes meet, she looks down, pen scratching furiously.
I bite back a smile.
It happens again during three-point drills. I sink four in a row, turn for my water bottle, and she's watching. Our eyes lock for a moment right before she suddenly needs to check her phone.
The ice queen act is exactly that—an act.
But every water break, every timeout, my attention snaps back to the bench. Back to her. And more than once, I catch her looking before she pretends she wasn't. Again and again and again.
Practice is winding down when I jog over to the bench where Harper is packing up her clipboard, and I figure this is my opening.
"Hey." I grab my water bottle, standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral and achingly familiar. "About the facility tour tomorrow. What time should I…"
The gym doors bang open, catching everyone’s attention. A guy walks in—tall and broad-shouldered, knee brace under his shorts, and players start to call out greetings.
"Marcus, hey man! How's the recovery?"
He waves them off, eyes scanning the gym until they land on us. On me, standing too close to Harper.
Even from that distance between us, I can see his jaw tightens. Are his teeth okay?
He crosses the court in seconds, inserting himself between us and pulling Harper into a kiss that's too aggressive and deep for a professional setting. Harper's shoulders go stiff before she pulls back.
Her cheeks flush as she throws a quick glance toward the team. "Marcus, I'm working."
"You didn't answer my texts. Figured I'd check on my girl." His arm stays locked around her waist, grip possessive when his gaze cuts to me. "Don't think we've met. Marcus Webb. Starting shooting guard, once this knee heals."
I shake his hand. "Ethan Reyes."
"Heard of you, hell of a record." His arm tightens around Harper. "You two know each other? Seemed a bit too familiar from over there."
"We went to the same high school."
"Classmates, actually. Dated for a while, too." I say, possessiveness suddenly bubbling up inside me before I could shut my mouth for good. "And you?"
"I’m her recent boyfriend." Marcus's expression flickers to something really ugly for a moment. "But interesting how Harper left that part out, apparently. Especially considering the history between the two of you I wasn’t aware of. Until now."
"She probably didn't want to bring up something that doesn't exist anymore. Ancient history." I keep my voice casual, sensing a dangerous pattern. "Right?"
Her eyes meet mine—surprise cracking through the mask. Maybe gratitude. But the next second Marcus laughs without humor and I want to throw a fist into that smug face of his.
"Don't play Prince Charming, Reyes. Two more months and I'll show you who runs this court." When Coach blows the whistle, he presses a kiss to Harper's temple—hard and practically marking. "I'll wait in the car, Harpy."
He walks out and I move closer to Harper, voice low. "What the hell was that?"
"Nothing." She continued gathering her things, avoiding my eyes.
"The way he grabbed you…"
"My personal life is none of your fucking business, Reyes." Sharp enough to draw blood. "You made sure of that."
And just like that she walks away, heels clicking against hardwood.
I watch her go and think about the way she flinched when he kissed her. The stiffness when he touched her in front of the team. That's not how someone acts when they're happy. More like someone tries to look past red flags in sake of fragile stability.
An ugly and bitter feeling twisted my chest hard.
I did this. I created this.
Now I have to figure out how to fix it.