Page 52 of Playing Dirty
“Try not to look like you’re attending a funeral,” Serena said beside me.
“I am attending a controlled emotional disaster,” I corrected.
She grinned. “Same thing.”
Inside, the court was already alive.
Sneakers squeaking.
Balls hitting hardwood.
Coaches yelling like volume alone improved performance.
And there he was.
Mason.
Of course.
He was mid-drill, moving fast, sharp cuts across the court like he was trying to outrun something invisible. Sweat already darkening his shirt.
He didn’t look up.
Not immediately.
That was new.
Usually he found me instantly.
That thought landed wrong.
“Rowan,” Daniel called from behind me. “Good, you’re here. Start taking notes on warmups.”
“I hate warmups.”
“I don’t care.”
Classic journalism leadership.
I stepped closer to the baseline, opening my notebook.
Serena leaned in slightly. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you’re not thinking about him.”
“I’m not thinking about him.”
A basketball slammed hard against the floor nearby.
I looked up without meaning to.
Mason caught the rebound, spun, passed it clean across court.
