TORI’s POV
My knee still ached as I locked my apartment door, but at least I could walk without wincing.
Coach had texted that I should come to practice even if I couldn't participate—something about "mental reps" being important.
I stepped onto the sidewalk and froze. A familiar black BMW was parked across the street.
I turned in the opposite direction, scanning the street for a cab. When I spotted one approaching, I raised my hand to flag it down.
The BMW pulled up beside me before the cab could stop, its window sliding down to reveal Ethan's annoyingly perfect face.
"Need a ride?" he asked, as if appearing outside my apartment was totally normal.
"No thanks. I'm good." I nodded toward the approaching cab.
"Come on, Tori. Your knee's still healing. Let me drive you."
"I'm fine," I insisted.
The cab drove past, the driver clearly seeing I was talking to someone else.
"Great, now look what you did," I muttered.
Ethan leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. "Just get in. We're going to the same place anyway."
I hesitated, weighing my options. Another cab might not come by for a while, and I was already running late.
"Fine," I said, sliding into the seat. "But this isn't becoming a thing."
Ethan smiled as he pulled into traffic. "How are you feeling today? Any aches? Did you take your medicine?"
"Why are you here, Ethan?" I asked bluntly. I had a pretty good idea, especially after that kiss yesterday, but I wanted to hear him say it.
"Just to check on you. I was driving past."
"At 7:30 in the morning? On my street that's nowhere near your house?"
He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. "I was worried about you."
"I don't need you to worry about me."
"Too late."
We fell into silence after that. I stared out the window, trying not to think about his lips on mine yesterday. Trying not to remember the way my heart had raced when he'd asked me to be his girlfriend. A question I still hadn't answered.
When we reached campus, I grabbed my bag and opened the door before he'd even fully stopped.
"See you later," Ethan called as I walked away without thanking him.
I didn't look back, focusing instead on not limping as I headed toward the athletic building. I had almost reached it when someone called my name.
"Excuse me! Are you Victoria Martinez?"
I turned to see a guy in a button-up shirt and khakis—definitely an admin type, not a student.
"Yes," I answered cautiously.
"Dean Harrington would like to see you in his office right away."
My stomach dropped. Ethan's father wanted to see me?
"Did he say what about?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"No, but he said it was urgent."
Great. This couldn't be good.
I followed him across campus to the administration building, my mind racing.
What could Ethan's father possibly want with me? Had something happened to Ethan?
We reached a door marked "Richard Harrington" in gold letters. The man knocked twice, then opened it when a voice called "Enter."
"Ms. Martinez is here, sir," he announced, then promptly left, closing the door behind him.
I stood awkwardly just inside the doorway, facing the man I'd met briefly at Ethan's tennis match.
Up close, the resemblance between father and son was even more striking—same blue eyes, same strong jawline. But where Ethan's eyes sometimes softened, Dean Harrington's remained cold and assessing.
"Good morning, Mr. Harrington," I said, straightening my posture despite my aching knee.
"Ms. Martinez." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Please, sit."
I stepped forward, but before I could sit, he reached into a drawer and tossed several photographs onto the desk.
My blood turned to ice as I looked down at them. There was Ethan and me on the field, the day he collapsed.
Another of him helping me to his car at the hospital. And most damning of all, one of us outside my apartment, his lips pressed against mine.
"Where did you get these?" I whispered, my mouth suddenly dry.
Dean Harrington leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "That's not important. What's important is what they represent."
"And what's that?" I asked, my voice stronger than I felt.
"A distraction." He tapped one finger on the photo of the kiss. "My son has a future—Stanford, professional tennis, sponsorships. What he doesn't need is..." he paused, looking me up and down, "...entanglements."
"Entanglements," I repeated flatly.
"Ethan is at a critical point in his career. These next few months will determine his trajectory for years to come." He gathered the photos into a neat stack. "He cannot afford any distractions."
"What exactly are you asking me to do?" I said, though I already knew.
"Leave Ethan alone to focus on school and tennis. That's his future."
He slid the photos back into his drawer and closed it with a decisive click.
"You can leave now."