I sit back down, watching the rest of the guys follow Mr. Williams over to the center of the court and start stretching. It looks like we’ll be running first thing. Suicides, if I had to guess.

Coach studies me, rubbing one hand across the gray stubble that always peppers his jawline. “Ready for this, Adams?”

“Yeah, I am, Coach.”

He nods. “Grades are good?”

“Yep.”

“Laura Golden mentioned you turned in one hell of a paper.”

I smile. That was nice of her. Mrs. Golden very easily could have told Coach about my D instead of the subsequent averaged B- that trying to impress Cassia earned me. I resolve to pay closer attention in History tomorrow.

“I’ve already got a few scouts lined up for the Covington game. If you’re still wanting to play in college, I’ll make sure to get everyone here I can.”

I nod. “I am. Thank you.”

“All right. Get out there.” He jerks his head to the left, toward the circle with my teammates gathered in the center of the court.

I stand and walk down the bleachers. They squeak under my weight.

“Oh, and Adams?”

I glance over at Coach, right as I’m about to pass him. “Yeah?”

“I made sure to mention the special attention you’re giving to the freshman when I talked to Dan Rivers and the other scouts. That’s exactly the type of leadership these schools are looking for. Keep up the good work.”

Special attention? What the hell is he…oh. He obviously heard about the outing with Ben. I followed up with hangouts with the rest of the freshman the next few days, so it didn’t look like I was playing favorites. Plus, Ben asked if I was going to, so I didn’t have much of a choice.

I nod and keep walking toward the team. If I get a basketball scholarship, it looks like I might have Maggie Nolan and her scheming to thank.

* * *

As soon as I walk inside my house, I beeline for the fridge. Practice was exhausting and I’m starving. I yank out a container of yesterday’s leftovers and spin toward the microwave. Then freeze.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I repeat, watching Cassia fiddle with the sponge she’s holding.

It’s not uncommon for her to hang around my house, but I wasn’t expecting it either. I’m usually home later, closer to dinnertime. And there’s a new dynamic between us—one I’m not sure how to navigate. Cassia says nothing, giving me zero clues about what she’s thinking or expecting out of this interaction. There’s no sign of Sydney.

I glance around the kitchen, which is much cleaner than it was when I left in a hurry this morning. All of the dishes have been washed and put away. The counters have been wiped. “You don’t need to clean when you’re over here, you know.”