Fake It Till You Feel It by Yan Stellar
Fake It Till You Feel It
Description
He told her she was a distraction he couldn't afford. Then he shattered her in front of everyone and vanished. Three years later, Harper Calloway has rebuilt herself into someone untouchable-team manager for her college basketball program, steady boyfriend, walls high enough to keep out exactly the kind of chaos Ethan Reyes brought into her life. Then he transfers to her team. And the coach assigns her as his personal manager. No escape. Daily contact. Every meeting a reminder of his hands, his voice, the way he still looks at her like she's the only person in the room. She's supposed to hate him. Her body didn't get the memo. Circumstances keep pushing them closer-publicly, professionally, in ways neither of them planned. And the more time Harper spends near him, the harder it becomes to remember why she built those walls in the first place. Ethan remembers exactly how to touch her. And Harper's discovering that hating someone is easy-staying immune to them is impossible. He has secrets about why he left. She has secrets she's never told anyone. The closer they get, the harder it becomes to separate what they have to be from what they're becoming.
Chapter 1
Mar 6, 2026
Harper’s POV
Morning light cuts through the blinds in thin strips across the bed. Marcus is still asleep beside me, his arm draped heavy across my waist, possessive even in unconsciousness.
I've been awake for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, running through today's practice schedule in my head.
Equipment check at nine. Film review at eleven. Full team drills at two.
Being team manager for a Division I basketball program isn't glamorous, but it's mine. My foot in the door toward the career I've wanted since I was sixteen, watching ESPN analysts break down plays and thinking I could do that better.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Then again. Then three times in rapid succession.
I reach for it carefully, trying not to wake him. Coach Davis. Three missed calls and a text that makes my stomach drop before I even understand why.
Coach Davis: Emergency meeting. My office ASAP. Transfer finalized overnight, need presentation for board in two hours.
Transfer. The word echoes in my skull as I slip out of bed.
"Where are you going?" Marcus's voice is sharp, fully awake. He'd been watching me reach for my phone. "Who's texting you this early?"
"Team emergency." I find my jeans on the floor, pull them on. "Coach Davis. Apparently last-minute transfer came through."
"At eight in the morning?" He sits up, eyes tracking my movements with that familiar edge of suspicion. "On a Saturday?"
"Board meets at ten. I have to prepare a presentation."
"You're always running off somewhere." He rubs his face, jaw tight. "Sometimes I wonder if you even want to be here."
I lean down and press a kiss to his lips, swallowing the irritation climbing up my throat. "I'll text you later."
"You said that last time. Then I didn't hear from you for six hours."
"Marcus." I keep my voice patient, even though my pulse is already racing with the need to leave. "This is my job. This is my future. Sports management doesn't wait for convenient timing."
He doesn't respond, just watches me grab my keys with that wounded look he's perfected over the past few months. The one that makes me feel guilty for having ambitions that exist outside of him.
The drive to campus takes fifteen minutes on empty roads. My phone keeps buzzing in the cupholder—group chat blowing up with speculation about the new player.
Someone heard it's a lottery pick potential. Someone else claims they saw the announcement on ESPN at four in the morning. A third person is already debating how this affects our March Madness chances.
I don't look at any of it. I'm too busy calculating how this transfer affects equipment allocation, travel logistics, practice rotations. Every detail matters when you're trying to prove you belong in a world that doesn't take twenty-year-old women seriously.
The athletic office is buzzing when I walk in.
Assistants huddle in clusters, voices low, eyes bright with the particular excitement that only comes with program-changing news. I catch fragments as I pass—"best point guard in the PAC-12," "Arizona State's leading scorer," "why would he transfer now?"
Coach Davis spots me from across the room and shoves a folder into my hands before I can set down my bag.
"New guard," he says, already moving toward his office. "Came through at 3 AM. I need stats, highlights, and the introduction package. Board meets at ten and they want the full picture."
"Who is it?" But he's already gone, the door closing behind him.
I move to my desk on autopilot. Pull up templates, start compiling data, cross-referencing stats, formatting slides. I've done this before—last-minute acquisitions, emergency presentations.
The chaos is where I thrive. Where I prove that I'm not just some rich girl playing at having a career.
At nine forty-five, Coach's assistant tells me to head to the gym for introductions.
I grab my clipboard, the folder tucked under my arm, still half-unread. Players cluster near the benches, basketballs spinning idle in their hands, everyone buzzing with curiosity about the new addition.
Coach steps to center court and the room quiets.
He launches into his standard welcome speech about excellence and commitment. I let the words wash over me while scanning the roster sheet for the name I never got around to reading.
"—pleased to introduce our newest addition to the team," Coach is saying. "A transfer from Arizona State with one of the most impressive records I've seen in twenty years of coaching."
I look up from my clipboard and my heart stops. Actually stops.
A full beat of nothing, then restarts at triple speed.
Ethan Reyes stands at center court. Taller than I remember, broader. Years have carved away the softness I used to trace with my fingertips, left something harder in its place.
He wears the practice jersey with casual confidence, moving with the same contained grace that used to make my breath catch in high school hallways.
Then his eyes scan the room and land right on me.
Recognition flashes all over his beautiful face. Then something softer—relief, maybe. Or hope. Too much of both for someone who has no right to either.
I can't breathe. My fingers grip the clipboard so hard the edges dig into my palms, and memories I've spent three years burying crash over me without permission.
Sophomore year, his eyes finding mine across a crowded gym. Three years of being inseparable—studying together, sneaking into his games, planning futures. First love. The kind where you're stupid enough to believe forever exists.
Then senior year. The hallway. His face blank and voice flat. ‘You're a distraction I can't afford.’ People watching, recording.
The feeling of humiliation of being dismantled in front of everyone. The silence after.
The abortion clinic two hours from home, weeks later. The grief I carried alone.
And now he smiles at me, warm and genuine, just like he used to. My stomach turns because the fucker has no right to look at me that way—standing in my gym, on my court, in my carefully constructed life.
"Calloway." Coach's voice cuts through my spiral. "Come here."
My legs move on autopilot and I cross the court toward them. Each step feels like walking through water, until I'm standing three feet from the man who destroyed me.
"This is Harper Calloway, our team manager," Coach says, gesturing between us. "Calloway, I'm assigning you to handle Reyes's integration for the first month. Practice schedules, academic coordination, facility orientation—the full onboarding package."
My blood turns to ice. "Coach, I have the budget review coming up, and the travel logistics for the opener…"
"Delegate what you need to. This is the priority." He claps Ethan on the shoulder. "Reyes is our ticket to the tournament this year, and I want his transition seamless. You're the best I've got, so he's your responsibility."
Ethan's eyes haven't left my face. "Looking forward to working together, Harper."
My name in his mouth sounds obscene. Three years of silence and he says it so… casually. The way you'd greet an old friend instead of the girl you gutted in public.
"Team manager Calloway," I corrected him immediately, my voice arctic. "I'll email you the onboarding schedule. Check your inbox."
Coach frowns at my tone but doesn't comment. He moves on to introduce Ethan to the assistant coaches, while I stand frozen on the court with my carefully built future crumbling around me.
One month.
Thirty days of forced proximity with the only person who ever made me lose control.
Thirty days of meetings and orientations and pretending my chest doesn't ache every time he looks at me.
I think about the career I'm building here. The internship applications are waiting on my laptop. The doors this position could open if I don't let personal history sabotage everything.
But then I think about his smile, warm and hopeful. Directed at me after three years of nothing. It’s irritating how familiar it still feels, really.
Only my phone, buzzing in the pocket, dragged me out of heavy thoughts.
Marcus: You didn't like the way you said goodbye today. We need to talk tonight.
I stare at the message, then at Ethan across the gym, then back at my phone.
One month of Ethan Reyes, every single day. And I'm already drowning.
Fake It Till You Feel It
30 Chapters
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