I walk in with four women who don’t do casual. Genny’s on my left, posture smooth, eyes moving like she’s counting exits and angles for sport. Clara’s on my other side, chin lifted, expression neutral enough to be dangerous. Talia trails half a step back, choosing visibility the way she chooses everything. Maya’s behind us, phone in hand, primed.
I’m fine. Composed. Deployed anyway.
Then the looks land. Game-night scanning shifts into recalibration. Gazes cut to my face, then to the tunnel entrance, then back to me like I’m a signpost.
I keep my pace steady. My expression stays smooth. Still, something tightens between my shoulder blades. This is positioning. This is placement.
“Don’t turn your head,” Genny murmurs, voice pitched like she’s commenting on the scoreboard. “You’ll confirm it.”
“I was planning to keep walking,” I say.
Clara’s gaze stays forward. “They’re already locking it in.”
Maya leans in just enough for her breath to brush my ear. “Okay, so—are we pretending they aren’t refreshing their feeds right now?”
“Tact,” Talia says, flat.
Maya huffs. “That was tact.”
I keep walking, boots steady on concrete, the sound too sharp in a space built for roar. Someone near the merch table says my name—quiet, testing how it tastes now. Zoë Barnes… with Gio Rossi. It’s already a caption.
“Let them stare,” I say, because I need my voice to do something useful. “They can burn their curiosity out on me instead of—”
“Instead of him,” Genny finishes, eyes still forward. Precision over comfort. “That’s the trade.”
Clara’s eyes flick once to my face. Alignment, not reassurance. “You don’t get to act surprised.”
“I’m not,” I say.
Maya snorts softly. “You are. Just internally.”
“Shut up,” I tell her, automatic enough to keep the edge intact.
A group of guys in Titans hoodies drifts past. One bumps my shoulder—light, deliberate. A boundary test. His friend laughs like it’s nothing. I hold my ground. No apology comes.
Clara’s hand brushes the small of my back. One contact point. Territorial without softness. A warning wrapped in a gesture that reads as normal friendship unless you know how to read it.
“You feel that?” she asks, calm.
“Yes.”
Talia’s gaze slides past me toward the lower bowl, toward the ice, toward the tunnel. Pure assessment.
“He’s not even on yet, and they’re already writing you like a headline.”
Genny exhales once, controlled. “Good. Headlines can be managed.”
Maya lifts her phone like she’s about to check something, then stops. “Do you want me to—”
“No,” I cut in. Too fast. Too sharp.
Maya’s mouth opens, then closes mid-breath. “Okay. Fine. I just—”
“Don’t,” Talia says again, quieter.
We hit the steps. The crowd thickens. Bodies compress. Noise sharpens. There’s nowhere for attention to hide.
A girl two rows up turns and stares straight at me. Appraising. Then her gaze slides past my shoulder to where Gio will appear later, like I’m a placeholder for the real event.
