Chapter 3
Chloe
The diner's pancakes were exactly what I needed—thick, drowning in syrup, and utterly devoid of any nutritional value that might remind me I was supposed to be a responsible adult. Leah had ordered the same, plus a side of bacon that she kept trying to share with me despite my protests that I couldn't possibly eat another bite.
"You need protein," she insisted, pushing the plate closer. "Your body's been through trauma."
"My body's been through self-inflicted stupidity," I corrected, but took a piece anyway. The grease actually helped settle my stomach, which I'd never admit to her because she'd use it as ammunition every time I tried to order a salad. "Thanks for this, though. Really."
She waved off my gratitude with her fork, mouth full of pancake. After swallowing, she leaned forward with that look she got when she'd been holding onto gossip. "So, did you hear about the exchange program thing? With the basketball team?"
I blinked at her, my caffeine-deprived brain struggling to make the connection. "What exchange program?"
"The one everyone was talking about at the party," she said, as if this should have been obvious. "That northern school—the one with the crazy good basketball program? They're sending some of their players here for a two-month training exchange. It's supposed to be this huge deal for preparing for the NCAA Southern Division playoffs."
"Oh." I stabbed at a piece of pancake, not particularly interested. "That's... cool, I guess?"
Leah's eyes lit up in a way that told me she had more to say. "The guy leading them is Brad Carter. You know, that insanely hot point guard with like a million Instagram followers? He went viral last semester for that buzzer-beater shot against—"
"Leah." I held up a hand, stopping her mid-gush. "You know I don't follow basketball drama."
"It's not drama, it's sports," she protested, but she was grinning. "And I thought you might be interested since you're working for the team this semester."
Right. My part-time job as basically a glorified equipment manager and errand runner for Alton's basketball team—a position I'd taken purely for the paycheck and the flexible hours. It wasn't glamorous, but it kept me from having to ask my parents for money, which was worth the occasional humiliation of scrubbing sweat off practice jerseys.
"I'm interested in my paycheck," I said flatly. "Not in whatever Instagram-famous pretty boy is gracing us with his presence."
Leah laughed, shaking her head. "God, you're so cynical now. What happened to the girl who used to swoon over debate team captains?"
The mention of debate team captains—or more specifically, one debate team captain—made something sour twist in my stomach that had nothing to do with the hangover. Alan Hawkins had been everything I thought I wanted: smart, well-spoken, came from a good family, knew all the right things to say. It had taken me three months to realize that "knowing the right things to say" was just another way of describing someone who was really good at lying.
"She learned that a 3.9 GPA doesn't mean someone isn't an asshole," I said, probably more sharply than necessary. "And that the guys on the basketball team, for all their supposed 'jock stupidity,' are actually pretty decent people. At least they're honest about who they are."
Leah's expression softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up—"
"It's fine." I forced a smile, draining the last of my coffee. "Ancient history. And you're right, I should probably care more about this exchange thing since I'll be dealing with them. When do they get here?"
Leah glanced at her phone. "Actually, I think they're arriving today. Like, right now today."
We paid the bill and started the walk back to campus, the afternoon sun warm on my shoulders and doing wonders for the lingering fog in my head. Leah was scrolling through her phone, probably looking at Brad Carter's Instagram like half the other girls on campus, while I tried to mentally prepare myself for the used textbook sale and the inevitable sticker shock even used books would bring.
But as we approached the main gates of Alton, I noticed something unusual—a crowd of students clustered near the entrance, phones out, voices raised in that particular pitch of excitement that usually accompanied either a fight or a celebrity sighting.
"What's going on?" I asked, more curious than I wanted to admit.
Leah grabbed my arm, her eyes widening. "Oh my God, I bet it's them. Come on!"
Before I could protest, she was dragging me toward the crowd, weaving between bodies until we ended up near the front. And there they were—a line of guys who could only be basketball players, their height and build making them impossible to miss even in a crowd. They were walking through the gates with an easy confidence, carrying what looked like surprisingly minimal luggage for a two-month stay.
The guy at the front—Brad Carter, presumably—was exactly what I'd expected: tall, built, conventionally handsome in that all-American way that made girls scream and guys want to be him. He was smiling at the crowd, clearly comfortable with the attention, wearing what looked like designer athletic wear with his previous school's logo emblazoned across the chest.
Around me, girls were losing their minds. "Oh my God, that's him!" "He's even hotter in person!" "Do you think he's single?"
I felt my eyes glazing over, the familiar exhaustion of campus celebrity worship settling over me like a blanket. This was exactly the kind of shallow, appearance-based hysteria that I'd grown so tired of. These were just guys who were good at throwing a ball through a hoop, not—
And then my gaze drifted to the back of the line, and everything in my head went abruptly, startlingly quiet.
The last guy in the procession was different. Where the others wore expensive gear and carried branded luggage, he had on a plain dark hoodie and worn athletic pants, a single backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair was longer than the others', dark and deliberately unkempt, and he wore black-framed glasses that seemed almost like a shield. Everything about his posture, his positioning, his entire presence screamed don't look at me.
Which was probably why I couldn't look away.
And then, as if he could feel my stare, he glanced up. His eyes—gray-green, even from this distance—met mine, and I felt something in my chest stutter and stop. It was only a second, maybe two, but it stretched out like taffy, thick and slow and impossible to break. My breath caught. My pulse kicked into a rhythm that had nothing to do with my hangover and everything to do with the way he was looking at me, like he was trying to figure something out, like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
I tore my eyes away, my face suddenly hot, and pretended to be very interested in something on my phone. But I could still feel it—that strange, electric awareness that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. When I risked another glance, he'd already looked away and followed the others toward whatever building they were being led to.
"Did you see Brad's smile?" Leah was saying, practically vibrating with excitement. "God, he's even better looking than his photos. And did you see the rest of them? It's like they genetically engineered a team of—Chloe? Are you listening?"
"Yeah," I lied, my voice coming out weird and tight. "Totally."
But I wasn't listening. I was watching the back of a dark hoodie disappear into the crowd, and trying to figure out why my heart was still beating too fast, why my hands felt shaky, why I suddenly couldn't remember how to breathe normally.
"Okay, seriously, what's wrong with you?" Leah asked as we finally extracted ourselves from the crowd and started walking toward the dorms. "You've been weird since we left the gates."
"I'm fine," I said automatically. "Just tired."
"Chloe." She stopped walking, turning to face me with her arms crossed. "I've known you for two years. You're a terrible liar. What's going on?"
I opened my mouth to deny it again, but something in her expression—patient, knowing, refusing to let me deflect—made me hesitate. "It's nothing," I said finally. "I just... did you notice that last guy? The one at the back with the glasses?"
Leah's eyebrows shot up, and a slow, delighted smile spread across her face. "Oh my God. You were staring at him."
"I was not—"
"You totally were! I saw you!" She grabbed my arm, bouncing slightly. "Chloe Hart, do you have a crush on one of the exchange players?"
"No," I said firmly, my face burning. "I just noticed he seemed different from the others, that's all. More... I don't know, low-key?"
"Low-key," Leah repeated, her grin widening. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I was standing, you looked like you'd been hit by lightning."
"You're being ridiculous," I muttered, starting to walk again. "I was just surprised by the crowd, and he happened to be there, and we made eye contact for like half a second. It's not a big deal."
"Uh-huh." Leah fell into step beside me, still smiling. "Well, for what it's worth, I noticed him too. He did seem different. Kind of... deliberately invisible, you know? Like he was trying really hard not to be seen."
That was exactly it—that sense of intentional obscurity, of someone actively trying to fade into the background. But why would someone on an elite basketball exchange program want to be invisible? It didn't make sense.
Unless he had something to hide.
"If you want," Leah said carefully, "I could ask around. Find out who he is. I'm sure someone on the team would know."
"Don't," I said quickly. Too quickly, judging by the way Leah's smile turned knowing. "I mean... it doesn't matter. I'm not interested in basketball players. You know that."
"I know you're not interested in Brad Carter types," Leah corrected. "But this guy seems different. And you clearly noticed him, whether you want to admit it or not."
I didn't answer, because I didn't know what to say. She was right—I had noticed him. More than noticed him. That moment when our eyes met had felt like something significant, something that mattered, even though I couldn't explain why. It was just a look, just a random moment in a crowd of strangers.
So why couldn't I stop thinking about it?
