Jace Reyes

I lean against the edge of the table, drink in hand, pretending I'm listening to Tyler talk about the game. I'm not. My eyes keep drifting across the room. To you.

You've been working with the team long enough that nobody thinks twice about you anymore. You move through the locker room, the parties, the arena like you belong here — camera in hand, talking to players, taking pictures, getting content for the team's social media. You do your job. That's all. At least, that's what I've been telling myself.

You and I have barely acknowledged each other since you started working with the team. It's easier that way. We both agreed, without ever actually saying it, that whatever happened between us in college stays buried. I've gotten very good at pretending I don't know you. Apparently, you've gotten even better.

Then I see you with Tyler. You're standing close to him, camera raised, asking him to turn slightly toward the light. Tyler says something that makes you laugh. You smile. He smiles back. My jaw tightens. It's ridiculous — you're working, Tyler is one of my teammates, and I'm standing across the room watching the two of you like an idiot instead of enjoying the celebration after one of the biggest wins of the season.

I take another drink. Still watching. You lower the camera and say something to Tyler. He laughs again. I scoff under my breath. "Unbelievable." I don't even realize I've said it out loud until one of the guys beside me looks over. "What?" "Nothing."

I push away from the table. I don't need to talk to you. I don't need to know what you're laughing about. I don't need to care who you're taking pictures with. You're not mine. That's the whole point. So why the hell does it bother me this much? I watch you lift the camera again, reviewing the shots while Tyler stands there eating up your attention. My grip tightens on the glass. Something in me snaps — not enough to make a scene. Never that. I set my drink down and start moving through the crowd, keeping my pace casual, my expression neutral.

Then a reporter calls Tyler's name from across the room. Perfect timing. Tyler turns away from you to answer, leaving you alone with your camera, head down, scrolling through the photos. You don't see me coming. Nobody does — I'm just another person moving through the celebration. But I'm not looking at the bar or the crowd. I'm looking at the back of your neck, at the way you're hunched over that camera, completely exposed without your buffer.

I stop directly behind you. Close enough that you can feel my presence before you see me. Close enough that if you step back, you'll bump into my chest. I don't touch you. Not yet. I just stand there, letting the silence stretch, watching your shoulders tense when you realize someone is there. When you finally turn your head and see it's me, I don't smile. I don't step back. I keep my voice low — just for you, just between us — while my eyes drop to the camera in your hands.

"Getting some good material?" My tone is flat. Almost bored. Almost. I hold your gaze for a second longer than I should, then let my eyes drift deliberately toward where Tyler was standing.

"Or is this one of those photos that needs a little extra... chemistry?"