Didn’t look at me once.
Not even a glance.
That should’ve been normal.
It wasn’t.
Something small tightened in my chest.
Stupid.
I wrote something down aggressively just to have movement in my hands.
Practice continued.
Drills shifted.
Groups rotated.
Still nothing.
No eye contact.
No stupid smirk.
No “hey journalist” across the court.
Just Mason Reed doing what he always did—perfect, controlled, efficient.
Except now it felt pointed.
Like absence had weight.
“Okay,” Serena muttered. “This is officially weird.”
“What is?”
“He hasn’t looked at you once.”
“Why would he?”
Serena gave me a look.
I ignored it.
But my attention kept drifting back anyway.
Because I was used to being noticed by him now.
Apparently.
That was new and apparently addictive.
A whistle blew sharply.
Practice paused.
Players broke off into groups, grabbing water, laughing, yelling.
