I glance back toward the dorm, even though she’s long gone. “You don’t know anything about her.”
“I know enough. And I know you,” he says, voice sharp with that old, familiar venom. “You’re going to fuck up this whole season for some pussy that’ll still be there in the off-season. They’re still saying you’ll be a first-round pick.”
I don’t speak.
Because if I do, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
My jaw locks. My grip on the phone tightens until the plastic creaks. I stare at the sidewalk like it’s the onlything keeping me grounded, like if I look up, I’ll see Blair and forget how to breathe.
He keeps talking. Of course he does.
“You think scouts care about your little distraction? You think they’ll overlook it when you start slipping? Because you will slip, Kane. You always do.”
I close my eyes.
He doesn’t understand. He never has.
This isn’t about distraction. This isn’t about weakness. Blair isn’t noise in the system; she’s the only thing that’s ever made it quiet.
“She’s not a phase,” I say finally, voice low. “She’s not a mistake.”
“She’s not a priority,” he snaps. “Not if you want the life we built for you.”
I hang up.
Not because he’s wrong.
But because he’s watching, too.
And Blair doesn’t need two men tracking her every move.
She only needs one.
Nineteen
Blair
The leaves are changing, and fall is in the air.
It’s almost Halloween, and the air smells like woodsmoke and cold apples. The trees are fire-colored, the sky bruised with early dusk, and the campus is already buzzing with talk of parties and costumes and who’s hooking up with who.
But I’m not thinking about any of that.
I’m thinking abouthim.
It’s been a month. A month of Kane’s hands on my body, his voice in my ear, his eyes on me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the ground. He still watches me. Constantly. Quietly. Like it’s a habit he never intends to break.
And the strangest part?
I don’t want him to.
Something is steadying about it. Something grounding. I used to flinch at the idea of being seen tooclosely, of someone noticing the cracks in my routines, the way I count steps or check locks or fold my sleeves just so. But Kane doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He just sees me.
And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.
I catch him sometimes, across the quad, leaning against a tree, pretending he’s not waiting for me to look up. But I always do. And when our eyes meet, something in my chest settles.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave.
