Page 51 of Playing Dirty
I typed while walking:
he’s more complicated than stupid
Then immediately regretted it.
Three dots appeared instantly.
excuse me???
I locked my phone without replying.
Because that was the problem.
Mason Reed wasn’t supposed to become complicated.
He was supposed to be simple.
Arrogant athlete.
Campus distraction.
Easy article subject.
Not… whatever that was.
The way he’d gone quiet when I mentioned his dad.
The way he didn’t answer immediately half the time like he was filtering himself in real time.
The way he looked at things like he was always slightly elsewhere.
And the worst part?
He noticed everything back.
Not in a performative way.
In a quiet, automatic way.
Like he couldn’t help it.
I shoved my hands into my hoodie pocket and kept walking faster.
—
I didn’t see him again until Monday.
And I told myself I was fine with that.
I wasn’t.
Blackthorne Athletics building always smelled like money trying too hard.
Clean floors. Glass walls. Expensive banners. Everything polished like image mattered more than air.
It did.
Rowan Hayes, student journalist, standing outside practice court doors with a notebook and a camera bag that suddenly felt heavier than it should’ve.
