The coffee shop is aggressively charming. Exposed brick, mismatched vintage chairs, the kind of indie playlist that makes you feel cultured just for hearing it.
I hate it already.
Ethan sits across from me, his injured ankle stretched out beneath the table, close enough that his foot occasionally brushes mine. Every time it happens, my spine goes rigid. Every time, he pretends not to notice.
"So," he says, stirring his black coffee with unnecessary precision. "Nice weather we're having."
"Seriously? Weather?"
"I'm trying to make small talk." His mouth twitches. "Isn't that what couples do on coffee dates?"
"Couples who actually want to be here, maybe."
Through the window, I can see the photographer Vance positioned across the street. Pretending to read a newspaper, because apparently we've time-traveled to 1985. The lens catches the light every few seconds, a reminder that none of this is real.
I lift my cup to my lips, hyperaware of every movement I make. Is this how people normally drink coffee? Am I holding the cup weird? My shoulders feel stiff and my smile feels plastic and this entire situation is a disaster.
"You're overthinking it," Ethan says quietly.
"I'm not."
"You've been holding that cup for two minutes without drinking." He leans back in his chair, something amused flickering across his face. "Just relax. We're two people having coffee. That's all anyone needs to see."
Easy for him to say. He looks effortlessly casual, one arm draped over the back of his chair, wearing that half-smile that makes my stomach do things I refuse to acknowledge.
The barista appears at our table. "Can I get you guys anything else?"
"Actually, yes." I set down my cup. "I'll have another latte. Oat milk this time."
Ethan's head turns sharply. "She means almond. Extra shot."
The words come out automatic, reflexive, and we both freeze.
The barista glances between us, clearly sensing the weird energy. "So... almond milk, extra shot?"
"Yes," Ethan says, still looking at me. "That's what she likes."
The barista retreats and the silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Three years. Three years apart and he still remembers my coffee order. Not just remembers it—corrects me when I get it wrong.
"I could have wanted oat milk," I say finally, my voice coming out strange.
"You hate oat milk. You said it tastes like wet cardboard."
"Maybe my taste changed."
"Did it?"
I don't answer. My throat feels tight and something hot presses behind my eyes that I absolutely will not let him see. It's just a coffee order. It doesn't mean anything.
Except it does. Because he remembers the small things. The details that shouldn't matter after three years of silence and distance and carefully constructed hatred.
"Harper." His voice drops, soft and serious. "I remember everything about you. That hasn't changed."
I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. "I need to get to practice."
"We still have twenty minutes—"
"Then drink your coffee slowly."
I grab my bag and leave without looking back. The photographer across the street snaps a few shots of my exit, and I wonder how Vance will spin this. Lover's quarrel? Playing hard to get? Whatever narrative makes us look more interesting than we are.
Practice is already in full swing when I slip into the gym. Coach is running offensive sets, his whistle cutting through the squeak of sneakers on hardwood. The energy is intense—conference play starts next week and everyone feels the pressure.
I grab my clipboard and find my usual spot on the bench, forcing my attention to logistics. Equipment inventory. Travel arrangements for the away game. Meal plans for the bus ride.
But my eyes keep drifting.
Ethan is back on the court, his ankle brace visible beneath his shorts. The trainers cleared him for light drills this morning, and he's already pushing harder than he should. Driving through defenders, pulling up for jumpers, moving with that fluid grace that makes everyone else look clumsy by comparison.
I catch myself tracking him across the court. The way his shoulders flex when he shoots. The controlled power in his movements. The focused intensity in his expression.
I force my eyes back to the clipboard.
Equipment inventory. Travel arrangements. Meal plans.
His voice echoes across the gym, calling for the ball.
Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't—
I look up.
He's already looking at me. Our eyes meet and something electric passes between us, even from across the court. His mouth curves into that knowing smile and I look away so fast my neck aches.
"Calloway." Coach's voice makes me jump. "Where are we on the equipment order for State?"
"Processing. Should arrive Thursday."
"Make it Wednesday. I want everything ready before we leave."
"Yes, Coach."
He moves on and I exhale slowly, grateful for the distraction. This is what I need—work, logistics, the mechanical tasks that don't require emotional processing.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. Marcus, sitting in the bleachers near the tunnel entrance. Still in street clothes, knee brace visible, watching practice with an expression I can't read from this distance.
Our eyes meet.
Three seconds of contact that feel endless. All the things we said in his apartment hanging between us, invisible and heavy. His face is blank, carefully neutral, but I can see the tightness in his jaw. The rigid set of his shoulders.
He looks away first.
The relief should feel like victory. Instead, it just feels like loss.
I bury myself in my clipboard until practice ends, avoiding eye contact with everyone. The players filter toward the locker room, voices loud with post-drill energy, and I start packing up my things.
"Yo, Calloway."
Jamison appears beside me, still sweaty from drills, grinning in a way that immediately makes my guard go up. He's the team's shooting guard—quick hands, quicker mouth, always looking for gossip to spread.
"What?"
"Saw you and Reyes at that coffee shop earlier." He drops onto the bench beside me, too casual. "Looked pretty cozy from the street."
The locker room goes quiet. I can feel other players pausing, ears tuned to our conversation.
"And?" I keep my voice flat, uninterested.
"Just surprised, that's all." His grin widens. "Thought you hated the guy. Whole team saw you freezing him out for weeks."
Everyone is watching now. Even the assistant coaches have paused their conversations.
I meet Jamison's eyes directly, letting nothing show on my face. "People change."
He waits for more. I don't give him anything.
"That's it? People change?"
"That's it." I zip my bag closed and stand. "Anything else?"
He holds up his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Just making conversation, boss."
I walk out before anyone can ask follow-up questions. The hallway is mercifully empty, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, and I let myself exhale.
That's going to spread through the team by tomorrow. Coffee shop sighting. The team manager dating the new transfer. I can already hear the whispers starting.
My phone rings in my pocket.
I pull it out, expecting Vance with notes on the coffee shop disaster. Instead, Mom flashes across the screen.
My stomach drops through the floor.
"Hello?"
"Harper." My mother's voice is cool, measured, the tone she uses when she's about to deliver bad news. "Your father and I saw something interesting on Instagram today."
I close my eyes. "Mom—"
"We need to talk about this basketball player. Tonight. Dinner at seven."
She hangs up before I can respond.
I stand in the empty hallway, phone pressed against my ear, listening to dead air. My parents know. Of course they know—nothing stays private in the age of social media, especially not when you're dating someone with draft potential.
Tonight. Dinner at seven.
I have four hours to figure out how to explain a fake relationship to parents who already hate the real history behind it.