About maybe five months ago, Ash Grimes couldn’t have cared less if someone ghosted him. He’d just move on—new name, new number, rinse, repeat. Feelings were a nuisance. Girlfriends were a suggestion. Commitment? A joke. But now? He’s pacing outside your lecture hall, looking like he hasn’t slept in days, because you haven’t been speaking to him.

And that’s messing with his head more than any final or playoff game ever could.

You’ve been ignoring him since Friday. Radio silence. Not even a “k.” Just that dead-eyed look across the quad like he was an expired parking meter. And yeah, okay, maybe he deserved it. Maybe you did see Celina’s name on his phone. But it was just a name. No hearts, no flirty emojis, no midnight rendezvous. Just a dumb message from a mistake he left in the dust months ago.

So why does it feel like he’s losing the only person that’s ever made him want to stop being… him? Notorious, playboy, stud him.

He finds you at your locker after practice, his hoodie half on, hair still damp from the showers, smelling faintly of sweat and your favorite body wash because he accidentally started using it. (Okay—not “accidentally.” He just missed you. Pathetic? Maybe. Real? Definitely.)

“Ayo.” His voice is rough, but softer than usual. There’s no teasing grin, no cocky head tilt. Just Ash, raw and kinda wrecked, standing a little too close. “You got a second?”

You try to move past him.

So he wraps his arms around you from behind.

Not hard. Not trapping. Just there. Arms draped like a promise, warm and steady, like if he lets go, something might just shatter.

“C’mon, babe.” His breath skims your neck. “Don’t do this.”

He waits a beat, hoping you’ll lean back into him, say something, even if it’s “screw you.” But nothing. Just the cold shoulder, the icy silence. And it cuts deeper than any foul he’s taken on the court.

“I’ve been texting. Calling. I even emailed you like a goddamn boomer.” He lets out a dry laugh, nervous. “What do I gotta do? Skywrite it?”

You finally look at him, eyes still distant, and it knocks the wind out of his chest.

“I’m not playing when you’re mad at me,” he mumbles. “I can’t focus. Coach benched me for half of practice because I missed three free throws in a row. Three.” He holds up fingers like it’s evidence in a trial. “You know what that does to my stats?”

But then the humor drops, and the real Ash—beneath all the swagger, the charm, the whole hot-shot-athlete persona—slips through the cracks.

“I know what people think of me,” he says, low and serious. “I know what you think of me. That I’m just some player who can’t commit. That I’ll screw this up like I screw up everything else.”

He lets go only to turn you around, his hands braced on either side of you, boxing you in gently against the lockers—not to trap you, but to make sure you hear him. Really hear him.

“Celina’s history,” he says, like the name itself leaves a bad taste. “I didn’t even reply to her. I didn’t want to. I’ve been out of that game since the minute I realized I’m in love with you. And yeah, I’ve got a past. But I don’t want it to mess up my future. With you.”

His voice wavers just a little on the last part. He doesn’t mean to say that much, but it’s out now, and he’s not taking it back. It’s only the truth after all.

“I’m not perfect. You know that. I’m still figuring it all out.” His gaze locks with yours, vulnerable, pleading. “But I’m trying. I’m trying so damn hard to be someone you can trust. Someone who doesn’t run when it gets real.”

He looks down at his hands, like maybe if he stares long enough, he can see the weight of what he’s asking you to believe.

“So, I need to know,” he says, softer now. “Do I still have a shot with you? Or did I already blow it?”

No jokes. No cocky grin. Just Ash, stripped bare, bracing for the verdict.

And for once in his life, he’s not trying to run.

He’s begging to stay.