Chapter 4
Chloe
The used textbooks turned out to be just as depressingly expensive as I'd feared, even with the "gently used" discount that really meant "someone highlighted every other sentence in neon yellow." Leah and I staggered back to our dorm under the weight of our purchases, my arms already aching from the stack of books I was carrying.
"I still can't believe Professor Miller assigned three textbooks for one class," Leah complained as we climbed the stairs to our floor. "Like, does he think we're made of money? Or that we have unlimited shelf space?"
"At least they're all for different units," I pointed out, shifting my grip on the books. "We can probably sell them back after midterms if we're desperate."
"If we survive midterms." Leah fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping her own stack in the process. "Did you see the syllabus? Four papers and two presentations. I'm going to be living in the library."
"You're always living in the library anyway," I said, following her into our room and immediately dumping my books on my desk with a satisfying thud. "At least now you'll have company. Ethan practically has a reserved seat next to you."
She shot me a look that was trying to be stern but couldn't quite hide her smile. "We're just friends. He helps me with statistics."
"Uh-huh. And I'm sure the fact that he brings you coffee every morning is purely academic support."
Before she could respond, my phone rang—the shrill, demanding tone I'd set for work calls specifically so I couldn't ignore them. I glanced at the screen and felt my stomach sink slightly. Coach Mike, the equipment manager for the basketball team.
"Chloe," his voice came through before I'd even finished saying hello, rushed and slightly harried. "I know it's your day off, but I need a favor. The exchange players just arrived, and there's been a mix-up with the locker assignments. Someone tried to handle it over the holiday break and completely screwed up the numbering system. Can you come in for about an hour? I'll pay you double."
I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to say no. My body was still recovering from last night's poor decisions, and the thought of dealing with a crowd of new players—probably all with Brad Carter's entitled attitude—made me want to crawl back into bed. But double pay was double pay, and I couldn't afford to turn down work, not when I was already cutting corners on textbooks.
"Yeah," I heard myself say. "I can be there in twenty minutes."
"You're a lifesaver. Thanks, Chloe."
I hung up and looked at Leah, who was watching me with barely concealed amusement. "Let me guess—basketball emergency?"
"Locker crisis," I confirmed, already pulling my hair back into a ponytail. "Apparently someone can't count to fifty without adult supervision."
"Well," Leah said, her grin widening, "at least you might get to see your mystery guy again. You know, the one you're definitely not interested in."
"Leah."
"The one who made you forget how to breathe for a solid thirty seconds."
"I'm leaving now," I announced, grabbing my keys and heading for the door. "Try not to die of boredom while I'm gone."
Her laughter followed me into the hallway, and I found myself smiling despite my reluctance. At least someone was enjoying this.
The walk to the gym took less time than I'd hoped—apparently my feet hadn't gotten the memo about dragging this out. The building loomed ahead, all glass and steel and school spirit, the kind of architectural statement that screamed "we take our athletics very seriously." I'd been working here since the start of last semester, but I still felt like an outsider every time I walked through those doors, like I was trespassing in a world that wasn't meant for me.
I was almost at the entrance when I heard footsteps behind me, quick and confident, and then a voice I didn't recognize called out, "Hey, hold up!"
I turned and immediately had to tilt my head back. Two guys were approaching—basketball players, obviously, given their height and the way they moved with that particular athletic ease. The one who'd called out was grinning, all charm and energy, his hair styled in a way that probably took more time than I spent on my entire morning routine. The other one was—
My breath caught.
It was him. The guy from the gates. Dark hoodie, black-framed glasses, that same deliberate invisibility that had caught my attention before. But up close, the effect was even more striking—the way he held himself slightly apart, like he was there but not really, present but removed. His eyes, behind those glasses, were fixed on something in the middle distance, carefully avoiding direct contact.
Except then they weren't. They landed on me, and I felt that same electric jolt I'd experienced at the gates, that strange sense of recognition that made no sense because I'd never seen him before today.
"Sorry," the first guy said, still smiling. "We're a little lost. Could you tell us where the convenience store is?"
I forced myself to focus, to look at the one who was actually speaking instead of staring like an idiot at his companion. "Um, yeah. The convenience store’s on the far side of the practice fields, about a six-minute walk from here. Head past the bleachers, follow the asphalt path all the way across the turf, and you’ll see its big glass front."
"Thanks." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Tyler, by the way. Tyler Walker."
I shook his hand, hyperaware of the fact that the other guy was still watching me. Not obviously—his gaze was subtle, almost careful—but I could feel it like a physical weight. "Chloe," I managed.
"Nice to meet you, Chloe." Tyler's grin widened. "Heading into the gym to work out?"
I shook my head slightly. "Not exactly. I work here part-time, mostly handling sports equipment."
"Cool. Well, I'm sure we'll be seeing you around then." He glanced at his companion, and something in his expression shifted—a hint of amusement, maybe, or surprise. "Are you planning to just stare at her all afternoon?"
I felt my face heat up, embarrassment and something else flooding through me. But the other guy didn't look embarrassed. He just held my gaze for another beat, steady and unreadable, before he said, "I'm Marco."
His voice was lower than I'd expected, quiet but clear. Just the one word—his name—but it sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
"Marco Rossi," Tyler added, apparently determined to fill the silence. "He's not usually this chatty. You should feel special."
Marco shot him a look that would have withered most people, but Tyler just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, man. Weight room's this way, apparently. Thanks again, Chloe."
They moved past me, Tyler's easy stride contrasting with Marco's more measured pace. I stood there for a moment, frozen, my heart doing something complicated and inconvenient in my chest. Then I heard Tyler's voice, slightly muffled by distance but still audible: "Dude, you actually introduced yourself. Without being prompted. What the hell? Did changing schools suddenly make you capable of basic social interaction?"
I didn't hear Marco's response—if there was one—because I was already walking away, moving faster than necessary toward the equipment room entrance. My face was burning, my pulse racing, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had just happened, even though logically, rationally, it was just a thirty-second conversation with two strangers.
Get it together, I told myself firmly. He's just a guy. A tall, mysterious, weirdly intense guy. Just a guy.
The pep talk didn't help. I was still thinking about those gray-green eyes behind black frames, still feeling the echo of that quiet "Marco" in my ears, when I pushed through the doors and into the familiar chaos of the basketball facility.
Coach Mike was exactly where I expected him to be—in the equipment room, surrounded by clipboards and looking like he was one inventory mishap away from a breakdown. He looked up when I entered, relief flooding his face.
"Chloe, thank God. Okay, so here's the situation." He thrust a clipboard at me, covered in what looked like a failed attempt at organizational charts. "The exchange players were supposed to get lockers forty through forty-nine, but someone—and I'm not naming names because I don't want to commit murder today—assigned them lockers that were already taken. So now we've got duplicate assignments, mismatched keys, and a bunch of very confused athletes."
I scanned the clipboard, already seeing the problem. Whoever had done this had apparently decided that numbers were more of a suggestion than a rule. "This is a mess," I said.
"I know. Can you fix it?"
"I can try." I grabbed a pen and started making notes, my mind automatically shifting into problem-solving mode. "I'll need to reprint the labels and reorganize the key system. And someone's going to have to move all the stuff that's already in the wrong lockers."
"I'll get some of the guys to help with that. You just focus on getting the assignments right." He was already heading for the door, then paused. "Oh, and there's a small box of water bottles in the hallway that need to be moved to the storage closet. Can you grab those while you're at it?"
"Sure," I said, already absorbed in the clipboard. Numbers and logistics I could handle. They made sense, followed rules, didn't make my heart do weird things for no reason.
Unlike certain tall, quiet basketball players who apparently had a talent for turning my brain to static.
I spent the next twenty minutes sorting through the locker mess, cross-referencing numbers with names and trying to figure out who had been assigned to which locker originally. It was tedious work, but oddly soothing—the kind of task that required just enough focus to keep my mind from wandering to places it shouldn't go.
Like wondering what Marco Rossi was doing right now. Or why Tyler had seemed so surprised that Marco had introduced himself. Or why that brief eye contact had felt like—
"Focus," I muttered to myself, marking another correction on the sheet.
When I finally had a workable system figured out, I printed out new labels and gathered the supplies I'd need to implement the fix. The box of water bottles Coach Mike had mentioned was sitting in the hallway connecting the equipment room to the locker area, right where he'd said it would be. I grabbed a stack of folders I needed to file first, balancing them awkwardly as I tried to figure out the best way to carry everything at once.
The hallway stayed dim, lit only by the glowing exit sign far down the narrow stretch. Against one wall sat a bulky industrial storage rack left outside the tactics meeting room. Its tiers held scattered sports gear: basketballs lined the bottom shelf, plastic training cones stacked on the middle, and miscellaneous loose supplies up top.
I juggled the stack of folders tucked in my arms, hurrying to deliver and wanting to set them down quickly. For a split second, I felt a faint light tug at my shirt, but the sensation faded right away. I brushed it off, figuring the edge of my folders must have caught on my shirt as I shifted my hold, and kept walking without a second thought.
Behind me, I heard a soft metallic sound—a faint scraping, barely audible. I paused, glancing back over my shoulder at the shelving unit. It stood solid, no visible shifts or fallen items. I could’ve sworn there’d been a water bottle sitting on its top shelf, though. I blinked and looked again—there was nothing there at all. Just my imagination, I guessed.
Damn! Now I'm hearing things and inventing memories out of thin air, I thought, shaking my head. This is what happens when you mix a hangover with not enough rest. Your brain starts making up problems that don't exist.
I turned back around and continued down the hallway, the folders still balanced in my arms, the water bottle box waiting for me at the other end. My mind was already moving ahead to the next task, the next item on Coach Mike's list, the next thing I needed to fix or organize or file away.
