Ethan’s POV
Something's wrong with Harper, and she won't tell me what.
She's not cold exactly—still kisses me good morning, still curls into my side when we watch TV, still says all the right things in all the right moments. But there's distance now, a gap that wasn't there before Seattle entered the conversation. I can feel her pulling back, inch by inch, the walls I spent months demolishing rising again like she's preparing for impact.
I've tried asking directly. She deflects with smiles and subject changes, assuring me everything's fine while her eyes tell a different story. I've tried giving her space, hoping she'll come to me when she's ready, but the space just grows wider. It's been a week since Vance's call, and every day she feels a little further away.
The sports podcast interview was Vance's idea—good publicity for the draft, he said. A chance to humanize the prospect, show off the relationship, make sponsors see the marketable couple angle. I wanted to cancel, wanted to give Harper a break from performing, but she insisted she was fine.
She's not fine.
The studio is small and overly air-conditioned, microphones arranged on a table between us and the host. Harper sits beside me in a green blouse that brings out her eyes, her hand resting on my knee in a gesture that looks natural but feels rehearsed. The host—Jake something, big following, known for getting athletes to open up—grins at us like we're the most fascinating couple he's ever interviewed.
"So you two are the real deal, huh?" Jake leans back in his chair, casual and probing. "High school sweethearts reunited. That's got to be a hell of a story."
"It's been a journey." Harper's voice is smooth, warm, perfectly calibrated for public consumption. "We've both grown a lot since then."
"And now here you are, championship hero with lottery potential, beautiful girlfriend by his side." Jake gestures between us. "Living the dream."
I force a laugh that sounds more natural than it feels. "Something like that."
The interview continues, questions about the championship game, about my training regimen, about how Harper and I balance relationship and career. She answers when prompted, laughs at the right moments, touches my arm with affectionate timing. Anyone watching would see a happy couple, madly in love, ready to take on the world together.
I see the fractures behind her eyes. The way her smile doesn't quite reach them. The slight tension in her shoulders every time the future comes up.
"So let's talk about what's next." Jake leans forward, sensing the good content. "Seattle's looking likely, from what I hear. Best coaching staff in the league, championship-caliber roster. How are you two handling the long-distance conversation?"
Harper freezes.
It's barely noticeable—a half-second pause, a slight tightening of her fingers on my knee—but I feel it like an earthquake. The question she's been avoiding for a week, suddenly unavoidable under studio lights with microphones recording every word.
"We're taking it one step at a time." I jump in before the silence stretches too long, my hand covering hers. "Right now, we're just enjoying the moment. Whatever happens with the draft, we'll figure it out together."
"That's beautiful." Jake nods approvingly. "So no concerns about the distance? Three thousand miles is a lot of relationship to maintain."
"We've been through harder things." Harper's voice is steady, but I can feel her pulse racing beneath my palm. "Distance is just geography."
The interview wraps up ten minutes later, handshakes and promises to share links and all the professional pleasantries that come with media appearances. Harper maintains her composure through every second, smiling for photos, thanking Jake for his time, playing the role of supportive girlfriend with Oscar-worthy precision.
The mask drops the second we reach the parking lot.
She walks ahead of me toward the car, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around herself despite the warm afternoon. I catch up in three strides, stepping in front of her before she can reach the driver's door.
"What's going on with you?"
"Nothing." She doesn't meet my eyes. "That went well, don't you think? Jake seemed—"
"Harper." I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. I'm happy for you." The words come out flat, rehearsed. "Seattle is an amazing opportunity."
"You've been pulling away for a week." I search her face, looking for the crack that will let me in. "Every time I mention Seattle, you change the subject. Every time I try to talk about the future, you find somewhere else to be."
"I've been busy. Work stuff, end of season reports—"
"You're lying." The words come out sharper than I intended, frustration bleeding through. "I know you, Harper. I know what you look like when you're hiding something, and you've been hiding something since Vance's call."
Her jaw tightens, something defensive flashing in her eyes. "I said I'm fine."
"And I said you're lying." I drop my hands from her face, stepping back. "Talk to me. Please. Whatever you're feeling, whatever you're scared of—we can figure it out together. But not if you keep shutting me out."
She opens her mouth, and I see it—the moment where she almost tells me. The words gathering behind her lips, the truth fighting to break free. Her eyes go glassy with unshed tears, and for one second I think she's finally going to let me in.
My phone rings.
The sound shatters the moment like a rock through glass. I glance at the screen—Mom, her name surrounded by hearts because she programmed it herself—and when I look back at Harper, the walls are up again.
"Take it." She steps around me toward the car. "We'll talk later."
"Harper—"
"It's your mom, Ethan. She's excited about the draft." Her voice is steady now, controlled. "Take the call. I'll drive us home."
I answer because I don't know what else to do, because my mom's voice is already bubbling through the speaker with questions about Seattle and drafts and when she can start telling the neighbors. Harper slides into the driver's seat and starts the engine while I stand in the parking lot, phone pressed to my ear, watching her through the windshield.
She doesn't look at me. Just stares straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel, face carefully blank.
We don't talk on the drive home. My mom fills the silence with excitement and plans and all the dreams she's been holding onto since I was fourteen, and I make appropriate sounds of agreement while watching Harper retreat further into herself.
That night, we lie in bed together, close enough to touch but miles apart. I can feel her awake beside me, her breathing too shallow for sleep, her body tense with whatever she's holding back.
"Harper." I reach for her in the darkness. "Talk to me."
She turns toward me, and in the dim light I see tears tracking down her cheeks. Her mouth opens, words forming on her lips, and my chest clenches with desperate hope that she's finally going to let me in.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Mom again, this time a text: "Forgot to ask—when should I book flights for the draft? Want to get the best price!"
Harper sees the screen light up. Her expression shutters closed.
"You should answer her," she whispers. "Make plans."
"Harper—"
"I'm tired." She turns away, curling onto her side. "Let's talk tomorrow."
We don't talk tomorrow. Or the day after. And every night, the distance between us grows.