And I hate not knowing.
And they seemed to have both ditched pursuing me to become best boys.
For three days, it’s the same.
They move like symmetry.
On the court it’s terrifying — Kane’s no-look passes landing exactly where Tristan’s hands already are, Tristan absorbing contact like physics is optional.
Coaches are thrilled.
Teammates are obsessed.
And me?
I feel invisible.
Which is ridiculous.
I’ve never needed attention.
But the absence of it from two very specific people feels louder than noise.
Tristan stops watching me constantly.
Not cold.
Not distant.
Just focused — jaw set, free throws steady, that stupid lock of hair falling forward and getting pushed back with the same absent gesture every time.
I notice that I notice.
I hate that.
Kane still flirts — texts about class, shoulder bumps, stealing my favorite black hair ties off my wrist and snapping them before giving them back — but there’s less urgency. More certainty.
Like he’s not chasing blind anymore.
Like something settled.
And the question sits under my skin all week—what did they say about me?
By Thursday, I’m annoyed enough to react.
I take longer getting ready for practice.
Not obvious.
Just details.
My favorite hair tie — the soft charcoal one that doesn’t snap mid-drill. The tank that makes my shoulders look strong instead of small. Lip balm instead of bare lips.
Armor, but prettier.
Lila notices immediately.
“Who are we dressing for?”
