The gym is electric with the kind of energy that only comes before rivalry games. Game day minus one, and tomorrow we play State—undefeated, ranked third in the conference, the kind of team that ends seasons and breaks hearts. Every player feels the pressure, every coach barks louder, and every drill runs sharper than usual.
I drown myself in logistics because that's the only thing keeping me sane right now. Press credentials for twelve outlets, equipment coordination with the away team's staff, lineup paperwork that needs Coach's signature before five. My clipboard is my shield, my pen is my weapon, and if I focus hard enough on the numbers, I don't have to think about anything else.
"Scrimmage!" Coach's whistle cuts through the noise like a blade. "First team versus second team, full contact, game conditions. I want to see playoff intensity!"
Players split into groups, and my stomach drops when I see the matchups forming on the court. Ethan lines up with the first team while Marcus takes his position on the second, which means they'll be guarding each other directly. This is going to be an absolute disaster.
The scrimmage starts and it's immediately too physical for a practice session. Bodies collide under the basket, elbows fly on box-outs, and I can hear words exchanged under breath that definitely aren't about basketball. Marcus sets a screen that's borderline illegal, but Ethan drives through it anyway, shoulder checking him hard enough that the sound echoes through the gym.
"Keep it clean!" Coach shouts from the sideline, but they don't keep it clean.
Marcus gets the ball on the wing, fakes left, drives right with that quick first step that made him a starter before the injury. Ethan stays with him step for step, but Marcus spins and hits a fadeaway jumper over his outstretched hand. The ball swishes through the net and Marcus turns, his eyes finding mine across the court and holding for a beat too long with a clear message: I'm still here, I'm still better, watch me.
I look down at my clipboard, keeping my expression professional and unaffected.
Next possession, Ethan calls for the ball at the top of the key and sizes up Marcus with that focused intensity sharpening his features. He drives hard to the basket, elevating when Marcus tries to cut him off, hanging in the air impossibly long before finishing with a reverse layup that makes the whole gym react. He lands, turns, and looks directly at me with that half-smile playing on his lips, dark eyes holding mine with something that feels like a challenge and a promise wrapped together.
I grip my pen harder and force myself to breathe normally.
This is ridiculous—they're playing basketball, not competing in some medieval tournament for my favor. I'm not a prize to be won, I'm the team manager trying to do my job while two overgrown children turn a scrimmage into a dick-measuring contest. But they don't stop, and the pattern becomes impossible to ignore.
Marcus answers with a three-pointer from the corner, the ball swishing through cleanly before his eyes find mine. Ethan responds with a steal and a fast-break dunk, landing with that cocky grace before looking straight at me. Marcus hits a mid-range jumper—eyes on me. Ethan threads a no-look pass for an easy layup—eyes on me.
Every single time, every basket, every good play, every moment of athletic dominance—their eyes find mine like I'm the only audience that matters. It's infuriating and childish and territorial and everything I should hate about male ego. And some traitorous part of me is absolutely loving every second of it.
"Calloway." The assistant coach appears beside me, frowning slightly. "You okay? You look flushed."
"Fine, just warm in here with all the bodies moving around."
I force my eyes back to my clipboard, but I can still feel them both—the weight of their attention every time they make a play, the silent competition that has nothing to do with basketball and everything to do with me.
Coach's whistle screams through the gym, sharp and furious. "Reyes! Webb! What the hell is this? You're supposed to be teammates!"
They've gotten tangled up under the basket again, shoving at each other with faces inches apart, neither willing to back down. Marcus says something I can't hear and Ethan's jaw goes tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
"Separate, now!" Coach steps between them, pushing them apart with both hands. "Save it for State tomorrow—one more incident and you're both running suicides until you puke."
They back off, still glaring at each other with barely contained hostility. Marcus retreats to the second team's huddle while Ethan returns to his position, but his eyes find mine one more time before the play resumes. I pretend I don't see, pretend my pulse isn't racing, pretend I'm just checking equipment lists like a professional.
The scrimmage continues, slightly less aggressive but still charged with tension that crackles in the air. I try to focus on my paperwork, but my gaze keeps drifting to the court, to Ethan specifically—the way he moves, the controlled power in his cuts, the focus that transforms him into something almost beautiful to watch.
Then it happens, fast and brutal.
Two players go up for a rebound at the same time, bodies colliding mid-air with limbs tangling dangerously. Ethan comes down wrong, his ankle—the one that just healed—twisting beneath him as he crumples to the floor with a sound that stops my heart completely.
I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, my clipboard clattering to the ground as my hand presses against my chest. The gym goes silent while trainers rush onto the court, someone calling for ice, everyone frozen in place watching Ethan lie motionless on the hardwood.
He stays down for three seconds that feel like three years, and I forget how to breathe. Then he rolls onto his back, flexes his ankle experimentally, and pushes himself up to sitting while the trainer asks questions and tests his range of motion. Finally, a thumbs up—he's fine, just a scare.
Ethan stands, shakes off the concerned hands, and bounces on his feet a few times to prove he's okay. The gym exhales collectively and practice resumes, but I'm still standing with my hand pressed to my chest, still trying to remember how my lungs work.
"Damn, Calloway." Jamison's voice comes from my left, amused and knowing in a way that makes my skin prickle. "Didn't know you cared that much about our new transfer."
I sit down so fast I nearly miss the bench entirely. "Managers worry about injuries—it's literally in my job description."
"Sure, your job." His grin says he doesn't believe a single word coming out of my mouth. "That's why you looked like you were about to have a heart attack over a guy you supposedly hated two weeks ago."
I don't respond, just pick up my clipboard and pretend to read numbers that blur together into meaningless shapes.
Practice ends twenty minutes later and I pack up my things slowly, waiting for the gym to clear out before heading toward the exit. I'm almost through the door when a hand catches my elbow, warm and firm.
Ethan stands there, still sweaty from practice with his breathing slightly elevated, positioned too close for professional distance. "You were scared when I went down."
"Managers worry about injuries." I keep my voice flat, controlled.
"Liar." He steps closer, backing me against the wall until his body blocks the view from anyone still lingering in the gym. "Your face went white, Harper. You dropped your clipboard, your hand went to your chest like you couldn't breathe."
"I was surprised, anyone would react to a player going down like that—"
"Come to the game tomorrow." He cuts me off, his voice dropping to something low and rough that makes my pulse stutter dangerously. "Not as manager—as whatever we're pretending to be."
"There's no difference between those things."
"There's every difference and you know it." His hand comes up, fingertips brushing my jaw so lightly I might have imagined it. "Sit in the stands, wear my number, watch me play like you watched that scrimmage—like every move I make matters to you."
I should say no, should remind him this is fake, contractual, a business arrangement with scheduled Instagram posts and approved PDAs. But the word that comes out is different.
"Yes."
He smiles—real and warm and absolutely devastating—and steps back from me. "I'll leave a ticket at will call, front row, center court."
He walks away and I stand there against the wall with my heart pounding, trying to understand what just happened to my carefully constructed defenses. Tomorrow I'm going to sit in the stands and watch him play, not as his manager tracking stats, not as a professional monitoring injuries, but as his girlfriend—fake girlfriend, but the distinction feels increasingly meaningless.
I'm nervous, actually genuinely nervous about watching a basketball game. Not for the team, not for the season, not for my job. For him. When the hell did that happen?