I'm stacking the last mat, and my headphones are in, playing something soft and low. Enough to hear myself think. Enough to pretend I'm not still replaying Friday night in my head.

The lie. The way his hand found mine. The way everyone stared.

A creak. The door.

I don't turn. Probably a coach. Or someone who forgot their bag. I keep stacking, sliding the foam into place, my back to the entrance.

Steps. Slow. Deliberate. Not the hurried shuffle of someone who forgot something.

I feel him before I see him. A shift in the air. The warmth of someone standing too close.

Slam.

His hand hits the locker beside my head. The sound cracks through the empty room, sharp and sudden. I flinch, yanking out an earbud.

Asher Reed.

He's close. Closer than a stranger should be. Ash-brown curls fall into his eyes, and his gaze is low, heavy-lidded, unreadable.

He doesn't move. His hand is still planted on the locker, caging me in.