Maybe I said the wrong thing. Maybe the“I missed you so fucking much”landed wrong, and he decided reopening that door on us wasn’t worth it. Maybe he’s already decided that keeping me at arm’s length would be easier. I guess he wouldn’t be wrong—I wouldn’t trust me, either.
Luca catches me staring at my phone during breakfast and raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything. Ryan, on the other hand, doesn’t have the grace to stay silent.
“Mano, you keep looking at your phone like it’s gonna spit out lottery numbers,” he says, pouring himself orange juice. “I wonder what everyone would say if they could see how lost you look while waiting for a text from a sweet boy with different colored eyes.”
“Eat shit, Torres,” I mutter, pocketing my phone. “Mind your own damn business.”
He grins and smacks me on my shoulder. “You’re so fucking obvious even Eli noticed, and that guy misses tornado sirens half the time.”
Luca snorts into his coffee. “Just text him, man.”
I don’t answer and chew the inside of my cheek instead, trying to act like the world won’t stop spinning if I reach out first. But by mid-afternoon, with practice coming up and a head full of static, it hits me all at once how fucking stupid I’m being. I’m spiraling over silence instead of doing the one thing Luca told me to do.
Be his friend. Check in.
I pull my phone out of my bag, my hand brushing against the thing I’ve been hiding in there for days, and I scroll to his contact. My finger hovers, and my heart thuds hard, but before I can overthink it yet again, I open our text thread.
Me: Hey, Blue. Random question, what time are you finishing with swimming practice today?
The three dots don’t appear straight away, and that’s fine. Ten minutes later, though, my phone buzzes.
Noah: We’re done by 3. Why?
I don’t let myself hesitate this time.
Me: Wanna come to my practice at 3:30? No pressure if you can’t or don’t want to, tho.
There’s a longer pause this time, long enough that my stomach knots again. I try to tell myself he’s thinking about it and not rejecting me outright. I try to focus on my class, but my mind keeps going back to Noah.
Fuck me, I am so twisted up about this boy.
Just as class ends, my phone buzzes again, and I steel myself for a rejection. Only… I don’t find one.
Noah: Okay. I can do that.
The knot in my chest loosens so fast, it almost knocks the wind out of me. I don’t allow myself to read into it. I don’t let myself celebrate, either. He’s just a friend coming to my practice… A friend whom I happen to be stupidly in love with, but anyway.
Me: Cool :) See you then.
He doesn’t say anything else, but the read receipt sits there like a promise. I let myself relax a little before continuing with my day.
The court is already buzzing when practice starts. Squeaking sneakers, slaps of hands on backs, and the sharp sound of Coach Blakely’s whistle making half the team flinch. I throw myself into drills, every muscle focused, every play just as sharp, to keep my mind occupied. But every time I find myself glancing at the entrance.
Keep your shit together, Moore.
When he walks into the gym about fifteen minutes later, I see him before he sees me. He pauses just inside the doors, shoulders slightly hunched and eyes flicking around the space. The gym has gotten louder, with more bodies in the stands, more noise—and I can see it hitting him all at once.
Ryan sees him as well, and I watch his face light up. “Well, look who decided to show his face,” he calls out and jogs over to Noah before I can stop him. “You couldn’t even come to watch your best friend shoot hoops? Tragic.”
Noah startles, then relaxes when he realizes Ryan’s grinning. “I did watch you shoot hoops. Just… years ago.”
“Ouch,” Ryan says, clutching his chest dramatically before walking backward toward the team again. “I’m wounded.”
I jog over to Noah, shaking my head. “Ignore him. You want to sit courtside?”
Noah hesitates, glancing at the rows of seats filled with students. The noise is rising—bouncing balls, Coach’s annoying whistle, laughter from the stands. I can see his fingers twitching, and the way he glances toward the exit makes me realize he’s about to bolt.
“Come on,” I say, gently taking his hand and leading him toward one of the quieter corners of the court. “You can sit over here where it’s less crowded.”
