The days after the party are an exercise in avoidance.
I throw myself into work with a vengeance I haven't felt in months. Schedules, equipment orders, game prep, travel logistics—anything to fill my brain with numbers and deadlines instead of the memory of Ethan's hands on my skin.
I stay late at the office, arrive early and volunteer for tasks no one wants because monotony is the only thing keeping me sane.
At practice, I'm hard fucking ice.
When Ethan tries to catch my eye during drills, I'm suddenly very interested in my clipboard. When he jogs over during water breaks, I'm already walking toward the equipment room.
When he says my name—that low, rough way he says it now, like it means something—I pretend I don't hear.
"Harper." He at last catches me on the bench on Tuesday, sweat dripping down his temples. "Can we talk?"
"Equipment inventory is due by five." I don't look up. "Is there something you need for practice?"
"You know what I need."
"I know you need new ankle tape. I'll have it restocked by tomorrow."
"You know,” he leans closer, dropping his voice so only I can hear, “you're really hot when you're so cold and mean to me. Kinda makes me hard."
My pen freezes on the clipboard as heat crawls up my neck. "That's inappropriate."
"Probably." I can hear the smile in his voice without looking. "Doesn't make it less true."
"Keep your weird-ass kinks to yourself then." I flip a page on my clipboard, forcing my hand to stay steady even if I stand up from the bench perhaps too quickly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
I walk away before he can respond trying not to mention how my hands are shaking, but he doesn't get to see that.
This is how it has to be.
What happened at the party was a mistake—a drunk, stupid mistake that I refuse to repeat. Every time I feel myself softening, I force myself to remember the hallway. The humiliation. The words he said in front of everyone. The clinic, especially so.
He doesn't get to touch me like that and then expect everything to change.
Oh, fuck no.
By Thursday, I've perfected the art of treating him like a stranger. Polite and professional and completely detached. If he asks a question, I answer in as few words as possible. If he lingers too close, I find somewhere else to be.
But apparently my body hasn't gotten the memo. Because every time he runs past the bench, I feel it.
That pull in my chest and familiar aching heat climbing up my neck.
When he scores and the team erupts, my eyes find him before I can stop them. When he peels off his practice jersey to switch sides, I have to physically turn away from the sight of his back, the muscles shifting under his skin.
He knows. Of course he knows.
I catch him watching me during water breaks. Not approaching anymore, he's learned that lesson, but always watching.
Those dark brown eyes tracking me across the gym with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. When our gazes accidentally lock, the air between us crackles with everything we're not saying.
The memory of the party hangs between us like smoke. I can see it in his face every time he looks at me—he's thinking about it too. And I hate that I want him to keep thinking about it.
Unfortunately, the other players have started to notice the tension.
I catch them exchanging glances when Ethan approaches me and I shut him down, when he stares too long and I pretend not to see.
But let them think whatever they want. I'm doing my job.
Practice is halfway through when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I step away from the bench to check it—Marcus calling.
"Hey," I answer, keeping my voice low.
"Hey, babydoll." His voice is warm, apologetic. "Listen, I want to make up for being an ass at the party. Dinner tonight? That Italian place you like, at seven."
I glance back at the court. Ethan is running drills, focused and intense, and not looking at me for once. "Sounds good," I say lightly. "I'll be there."
"Perfect, I'll see you at seven then. Love you."
The words hang in the air, waiting for their echo, but my throat closes around the response I should give automatically. "See you then," I say instead, and the silence where "love you too" should be stretches between us like a chasm.
He doesn't seem to notice, or maybe he's used to it by now. I tell myself that feelings can be rebuilt if I try hard enough—that I can learn to love Marcus again and forget Ethan ever existed.
At least something in my life is simple. Marcus is trying and I should try too.
I pocket my phone and turn back to the court just in time to see it happen. Collision under the basket when two players going for the same rebound, bodies tangling in midair.
Ethan goes down hard. Bad hard.
The sound he makes, something between a grunt and a scream, cuts through me like a blade. His hands wrap around his ankle, face white with pain and teeth clenched so tight the muscles in his jaw strain.
I'm moving across the court before I think, shoving past players and dropping to my knees beside him. My hands find his calf, steadying his leg, and his pulse races under my fingertips.
"Don't move." My voice comes out steady even though my heart is pounding. "Can you wiggle your toes?"
"I'm fine." Through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. "Just give me a second…"
"You're not fine. Someone, call the trainer and get ice. Now!"
The trainer arrives, running an assessment, and every time he touches the ankle, Ethan flinches. Every flinch feels like a knife in my ribs.
"We need imaging," the trainer says. "Could be a sprain. Or a fracture."
Fracture. The word echoes in my skull.
His career, his draft prospects… Everything he's worked for since he was fourteen years old could be gone just like. Puff and non-existent. Double fuck.
When they load him onto the stretcher, I follow, and when someone asks if I'm coming and I simply say yes. Team manager, protocol and whatever.
Yet protocol doesn't explain why my hands won't stop shaking.
The ambulance is all sirens and fluorescent lights. I sit beside him, not touching, but close enough that our shoulders brush on turns. He keeps his eyes closed, breathing in controlled bursts.
"You didn't have to come," he says quietly.
"It's my job."
"Pretty liar." A ghost of a smile crosses his face, even through the pain.
The hospital is cold and bright when we arrive. They wheel him away for X-rays and I'm left in the waiting room, pacing the small space, counting tiles, checking the hallway every thirty seconds.
I think about his career. About his mother working multiple jobs so he could play basketball since kid. About him leaving me for his bright future, leaving us. About everything riding on whatever those X-rays show.
When the doctor finally appears, I'm on my feet before she finishes saying his name.
"Grade two sprain. No fracture. Few weeks of rest, full recovery expected."
Relief hits so hard my knees nearly buckle and I sink into a plastic chair and press my hands to my face.
He's okay. He's going to be okay.
At last they let me see him before discharge. He's sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter the room, ankle braced and crutches against the wall. Exhausted but color returned. Good.
"Still here?" he asks, shifting on the hospital bed to get a better look at me.
"Paperwork—someone has to handle it." I don't meet his eyes, keeping my attention fixed on the forms in my hands.
"Right, paperwork." That soft smile again, the one that makes my chest tight in ways I refuse to examine. "You know you're even more beautiful when you're worried about me?"
"I wasn't worried, it's just protocol." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
"You were pacing the waiting room for several hours, and your protocol must be very thorough, team manager Calloway." His eyes find mine, warm despite the exhaustion, seeing right through every wall I've tried to build.
"Shut up." But there's no heat in it, and his grin tells me he knows.
"There she is, the mean version girl—my favorite." He watches me sign the forms, his gaze heavy on my skin the whole time, and I arrange for a teammate to drive him home while pretending my chest doesn't ache with every breath.
It's past nine when I finally check my phone in the parking lot, and the screen shows six missed calls from Marcus and four texts that make my stomach drop through the floor.
Marcus: Table's ready!
Marcus: You on your way?
Marcus: Are you seriously doing this right now? I'm sitting here like a fucking idiot, Harper.
Marcus: Unbelievable. Don't bother coming. I'm done waiting for someone who clearly doesn't give a shit.
I forgot the dinner—the apology dinner at the Italian place—completely and totally forgot because I spent four hours at a hospital with my ex-boyfriend. My fingers shake as I type a response, apologizing, explaining about the emergency, promising to explain everything tomorrow. Delivered, then read, but no response comes no matter how long I stare at the screen.
Four hours with Ethan, and I didn't think about Marcus once—not when they loaded him in the ambulance, not while pacing the waiting room, not when relief made my knees weak. What kind of girlfriend does that? The kind who's lying to herself about what she feels, and I shove the thought down and drive home alone.