Chapter 2
Mac hates team buses. They smell like dry shampoo and social anxiety. Girls yelling over music, sharing gum, scrolling TikTok. She’s jammed in the back row with her headphones on, but the battery’s dead and the cord is frayed, so it’s just noise-cancelling without the music.
Across the aisle, KJ is reading The Secret History and taking notes. With a real pencil. On real paper. Mac watches her for a minute, just to be annoying.
“You know no one cares what that book means, right?”
KJ doesn’t look up. “Then I guess you two have something in common.”
Mac smirks, slides lower in her seat. “You’re not even gonna pretend to be nice?”
“I am pretending.” KJ turns a page sharply. “You’d know if I wasn’t.”
⸻
The hotel is one of those budget chain places that tries to feel fancy by putting fruit-infused water in the lobby. The team pours in, dragging their gear and yelling about vending machines. Coach is shouting about curfew and respect and something else no one’s listening to.
Mac’s half-asleep against the wall until she hears it:
“Coyle, you’re with Brandman.”
She lifts her head. “You sure that’s wise, Coach? I tend to lash out under stress.”
“Great,” KJ says, walking past her with the keycard. “I thrive under pressure.”
⸻
Their room smells like overly bleached sheets and hotel sadness. Two beds. One bathroom. No escape.
KJ immediately sets up a little desk situation by the window: laptop, planner, color-coded pens. Mac throws her bag on the other bed and kicks off her shoes with maximum disrespect.
“Don’t bleed on the carpet,” KJ mutters.
“I’m not bleeding.”
“Yet.”
They don’t speak again for an hour. Mac scrolls her phone. KJ highlights something in neon yellow. The silence feels like it’s trying to be peaceful but keeps accidentally becoming a staring contest.
Then, KJ gets up, starts brushing her teeth with military precision. Mac watches her in the mirror from the bed, then—lazily—says, “You missed a spot.”
KJ spits. “Do you ever shut up?”
“I’m fun.”
KJ stares at her. Wipes her mouth. “No. You’re distracting.”
Mac blinks. “From what?”
“Everything.”
For a second, Mac thinks that maybe KJ’s going to say something else. Something softer or meaner or—she doesn’t know. But then KJ flicks the bathroom light off and climbs into bed without a word.
⸻
At 2:47 a.m., Mac can’t sleep. She stares at the ceiling and whispers, “Brandman?”
No answer.
She rolls over.
“Still hate me?”
Still nothing.
She lets out a breath. “Good. I’d hate to be special.”
But in the dark, she swears she hears KJ whisper, just barely:
“You are.”