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Harper DuBose was none of those things.

I stood at half court during a timeout in the second quarter of our first playoff game, breathing hard, trying to focus on Coach Lopez's instructions about defensive rotations. But my eyes kept drifting to the stands. To the courtside seat where Harper sat wearing a Fangs jersey—Trish's number, which was both disappointing and somehow perfect—her wild curls pulled back in a high ponytail, her attention locked on the court with an intensity I felt like a physical touch.

She was watching me.

Not the game. Not the team. Me.

Every time I touched the ball, every time I moved without it, her eyes tracked my movement like she was studying game film, memorizing patterns, learning the language my body spoke on the court.

It was destroying my concentration.

It was also destroying me in slower, more painful ways. Three days since I'd kissed her in Isla's kitchen. Three days since I'd had her pressed against that counter, my hand on her zipper, her legs wrapped around my waist. Three days since she'd stopped me because I couldn't give her what she needed, and the look on her face when she'd pulled away had haunted every moment since.

I hadn't slept more than four hours a night. I kept replaying the way she'd tasted, the sounds she'd made, the devastation in her eyes when we'd both realized that wanting each other wasn't enough. The texts we'd exchanged afterward were seared into my brain—I'd rather have touched you once and lost you than never have touched you at all.

My heart ached constantly. A physical pain that had nothing to do with conditioning and everything to do with knowing I'd found someone I wanted so badly it was despairing, and I was still too much of a coward to claim her.

"Russo, you with us?" Coach's voice cut through my distraction.

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm here."

"Then act like it. We need you locked in for this second half. They're switching everything on defense. I want you hunting mismatches, making them pay in the paint."

I nodded, grabbed my water bottle, tried to remember how to be Captain Russo instead of the Cam who'd kissed Harper against a kitchen counter three days ago and hadn't stopped thinking about it since.

The buzzer sounded. Third quarter.

I jogged back onto the court, found my defensive assignment, and proceeded to play like someone possessed. Every cut was perfectly timed. Every pass threaded through gaps that shouldn't have existed. Every defensive rotation executed with the kind of intensity that came from channeling want and desire into pure performance.

In the fourth quarter, with two minutes left and the game tied, I caught the ball at the three-point line with a defender draped all over me. No business taking this shot. Coach would kill me if I missed.

I looked directly at Harper.

She was leaning forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on mine. Her lips parted slightly. I remembered exactly how they'd felt against mine. Remembered the way she'd gasped when I'd touched her breast. Remembered everything I was trying to forget.

I took the shot.

The ball arced through the air in perfect rotation, the defender's hand grazing my release but not enough to alter the trajectory. Time slowed. The crowd noise compressed into white static. There was only the ball and the basket and Harper watching me like I was the only thing in the arena that existed.

Swish.

The crowd exploded. My teammates mobbed me. We were up three with ninety seconds left, and I'd just hit what would end up being the game-winner.

But all I could see was Harper standing up, applauding with a smile that made my rib cage feel too small for my lungs, and all I could feel was the echo of her body against mine three days ago and the impossibility of having her again.

We won by seven. I finished with twenty-eight points and eleven assists and absolutely zero ability to focus during the post-game press conference, where I gave the same canned responses I always gave about teamwork and execution and taking it one game at a time.

What I wanted to say: I can't stop thinking about Harper DuBose's mouth. Next question.

What I actually said: "We executed the game plan. Credit to my teammates for making plays."

Professionalism was exhausting.

By the time I'd showered and changed, the team was already planning to head to Sidebar for our traditional post-playoff-win celebration. Normally, I'd make an excuse. Early practice, need for recovery, any lie that would get me out of forced socialization.

Tonight I didn't even try.

Because I knew Harper would be there, and I was apparently a masochist who couldn't stay away even when staying away was the smart choice.