CHAPTER 3: NATE

Practice had been brutal. Coach ran us through defensive conversion drills until my quads felt like poured lead and my lungs burned with the dry flavor of copper. Senior year. Team captain. Starting point guard. The stakes were no longer theoretical; the professional scouts were starting to circle the court more regularly now, clipboards braced against their ribs, eyes sharp and unblinking. This was supposed to be my year—the one where the thousands of hours I’d logged in empty gymnasiums finally paid off. First-round draft buzz. A real, solid shot at the league. I’d spent four years making sure Nathaniel Ellison was a brand name people remembered for the right reasons. Invincible. Consistent. Unshakeable.

​And now the fucking university housing office had decided to test the structural integrity of that entire plan.

​I cursed under my breath as I climbed the final flight of narrow stairs to the apartment, my heavy leather duffel bag slung over a shoulder that already ached from fighting through three screens during scrimmages. “Two weeks, my ass,” I muttered into the empty stairwell. The varsity dorm transfer was a bureaucratic nightmare of red tape, lost work orders, and athletic department excuses. Couch surfing in my best friend’s little sister’s off-campus apartment wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured the first chapter of my senior season kicking off. It felt small. It felt exposed.

​I turned the key quietly and stepped inside, bracing for the impact of the air.

​The living room was dim, the copper string lights Jess had hung casting faint, amber halos against the unpainted drywall. The only real illumination came from the kitchen—a cold, sharp bar of fluorescent light that spilled across the linoleum. Jess was apparently out; she’d mentioned some communications club mixer this morning before I left for early film study.

​But Maeve was here.

​She stood at the laminate kitchen counter, her phone pressed tightly to her ear, her back partially turned to me. Even at five-foot-six, she somehow managed to command the entire square footage like a low-pressure system packed into a slender frame. Her dark chocolate brown hair fell in thick, loose waves just past her shoulders, a few stray strands tucked behind a small, pale ear. She was wearing that massive, oversized cream sweater—the kind that slipped off one collarbone to reveal a sliver of warm ivory skin—and straight-leg denim that made her legs look long and lean.

​She was the kind of pretty that snuck up on you from behind. Not the girl who stopped a room by entering it, but the girl you couldn't look away from once you realized she was there.

​“Yeah… I miss you too,” she said softly into the receiver, her voice dropping into a register I hadn’t heard in two years. “Love you. Night.”

​My stomach twisted, a hard, physical knot forming just beneath my ribs. Jordan Hayes. Mr. Pre-Law. Mr. Safe Harbor. The guy who probably had a pristine driving record, owned an ironed suit, and never fucked up a single line of his life. I hated him on sight, and I’d only seen the back of his head once from thirty yards away across the quad. I hated how easily that love you rolled off her tongue, like a habit she was proud of keeping. I hated that it existed at all.

​She ended the call and set the phone face-down on the counter. I let my duffel bag drop onto the floor by the couch, the heavy leather hitting the wood louder than necessary.

​Maeve turned instantly, and the temperature in the kitchen dropped fifteen degrees before her boots even cleared the island. Those deep olive-green eyes narrowed into dangerous slits the second they landed on my face.

​“You’re still here,” she said flatly.

​“Shockingly, yes.” I walked past her into the kitchen, keeping a strict foot of clear air between my shoulder and hers, and pulled the fridge door open. I grabbed a cold plastic water bottle, using the chill of it to steady my hands. “Housing situation is still a disaster. Trust me, Calloway, I’m as thrilled about the couch layout as you are.”

​She crossed her arms over her chest, pulling that heavy knit sweater tight around herself like armor. The fabric slipped a fraction further off her shoulder. I forced my eyes up to her face, refusing to let my gaze linger anywhere else.

​“Jess isn’t here,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation of space.

​“Nope. Just me.”

​The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, vibrating with the ghost of a phone call she didn't want me to have heard. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned my back against the counter, twisting the plastic cap off the water bottle with a sharp, mechanical crack. “So. Jordan, huh? Sounds serious.”

​Maeve’s expression didn’t shift a millimeter, but I saw the precise moment her shoulders locked. “That’s none of your business.”

​“Relax. Just making conversation.” I took a long, slow drink, my eyes tracking her over the rim of the plastic bottle. “The guy must be a saint. Perfect boyfriend material. Bet he never uses your mugs or touches your honey-oats without submitting a request in writing.”

​Her eyes flashed. There it was—the storm waking up behind her pupils.

​“You know what?” she said, her voice dropping into that low, surgical cadence that always felt like a razor blade sliding through silk. “Let’s get one thing perfectly straight, Nate. You don’t get to comment on my life. You don’t get to make observations. You don’t even get to look at me longer than it takes to check if the hallway is clear. Those were the conditions.”

​“I agreed to the conditions,” I shot back, matching her cold, level register as I set the water bottle down on the laminate. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to pretend you’re a ghost while I’m living out of a duffel bag ten feet from your room.”

​“You’ve been here twenty-four hours and you’re already taking up all the air, eating my food, and eavesdropping on my personal calls,” she said, her voice sharpening with every syllable. “That’s not staying out of my way.”

​“I wasn’t eavesdropping. You were standing in the middle of the common space talking loud enough for the varsity squad down the block to hear how much you love your lawyer.” The words came out with more of an edge than I intended, a bitter, rough tone that tasted like copper. I didn't pull it back. “Must be nice. Having someone that… reliable.”

​Maeve took a single step closer. Even with my height advantage, the sheer, icy gravity of her presence shrunk the distance between us until the air felt heavy. “You don’t know the first thing about reliable, Nate. And you definitely don’t possess the right to judge it.”

​I set the water bottle down harder than necessary, the plastic crinkling under my grip. “I’m not judging anything. I’m just pointing out the obvious. You’ve got your perfect little universe set up here, haven't you? Pristine GPA. The internship applications. The boyfriend who probably brings you specific flowers and remembers the exact date you met. Must be exhausting keeping all that white armor so polished.”

​Her laugh was short, sharp, and entirely devoid of humor. “Armor? That’s exceptionally rich coming from you, Nathaniel. Mr. Golden Boy. Team captain. The university's favorite son. Walking around Aldridge like the administration owes you a living just because you can handle a basketball. Tell me—does the performance ever get tiring, or do you actually believe your own press releases at this point?”

​I felt the muscle in my jaw tighten until it ached. “This has nothing to do with me.”

​“No? Then stop inserting your commentary into my kitchen. Stop acting like you have any residual right to an opinion on who I speak to or how I choose to live. You’re on that couch because your housing transfer fell through and you have nowhere else to go. That’s it. Two weeks, Nate. Then you disappear back into the athletic circle and we go back to the only rule that matters: pretending the other person doesn’t exist.”

​The words landed like small, practiced cuts. I hated how good she was at it—never raising her voice, never showing a single crack in her own foundation while she methodically looked for mine.

​“Fine,” I said, my voice flattening into a rigid line. “Message received, Calloway. I’ll stay on my side of the cushions. You stay on your high horse. We’ll both survive the month.”

​She studied me for one final, agonizing beat, those deep green eyes searching my face for something I didn’t want her to find. Whatever she saw behind my eyes—whatever I was carrying—she dismissed it with a cool turn of her chin. She turned on her heel and walked toward her bedroom.

​“And Nate?” she called out without looking back, her hand already gripping the brass doorknob. “Stop using my cereal. Buy your own.”

​The wood clicked into the frame, loud and final in the quiet apartment.

​I stood in the kitchen for a long time after she left, the bar of fluorescent light humming faintly above my head. I looked down at the half-empty cereal box sitting on the counter. The apartment felt too small now. Too thin.

​I moved to the living room, dropping heavily onto the couch and burying my face in my hands. The leather duffel bag sat by my feet like an anchor. The non-conference opener was in ten days. The pro scouts were arriving for the home game right after that. I was supposed to be completely locked in—laser-focused on plays, on leadership, on the future I'd mapped out since my freshman year. Not dealing with this tectonic tension with Caleb’s little sister.

​I hated the housing office with every passing minute.

​Later that night, long after the apartment had gone totally dark and Jess still hadn't returned, I lay flat on the short couch, staring up at the ceiling. The amber string lights cast thin, skeletal patterns across the drywall above me. My legs hung awkwardly off the edge of the cushions because the frame was built for someone half my size.

​This was fine.

​Maeve was just Caleb’s younger sister. Someone I used to see around during summers. The fact that she had some pre-law boyfriend was entirely irrelevant to my life. The way she looked at me like I was something she wanted to scrape off her shoe was irrelevant. The way the air in the kitchen still felt heavy, thick, and electric whenever we were in the same room was… something I could manage.

​I turned onto my side, punching the thin pillow Jess had left out for me until it flattened against the armrest. Two weeks. Three at the absolute most. I’d keep my head down, dominate on the court, stay out of her path, and keep building the future I’d earned.

​It was completely fine.

​I closed my eyes in the dark and tried to believe the lie.

​It didn’t work.

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