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A cold, electric panic floods my bloodstream. The roar of the gymnasium fades to a dull, muffled hum in my ears as my head slowly turns towards the aisle.

Standing right there, just a few feet away on the concrete stairs, is Maksim.

My heart plummets straight into the floor.

He’s wearing a dark, oversized hoodie, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His dirty blonde hair is a little longer than the last time I saw him, and his skin carries the golden, sun-kissed warmth of the Italian coast. He looks ethereal. He looks devastatingly real.

Maksim returns the sign toward Jamie, his face lighting up with a warm, brilliant smile that knocks the breath clean out of my lungs.

Then, almost as if he can feel the sheer intensity of my gaze burning into him, his eyes shift. They meet mine and time stops dead.

I watch in agonizing slow motion as that stunning smile slowly fades from his lips. The open warmth vanishes, replaced by a storm of emotions in his brown eyes that I can barely decipher. It’s a volatile collision of raw anger, deep-seated grief, and a bitter, lingering resentment that hits me like a physical blow, squeezing my ribs so hard I can’t draw air.

I don’t think.

I simply move.

One step.

Then another.

He watches me coming toward him, and for a brief, foolish moment, I believe he might stay. That perhaps three months apart have changed enough between us that he won’t immediately run from me.

I’m barely ten feet away, my mouth parting to finally say his name, when a heavy hand claps down hard on my shoulder, stepping squarely into my path.

“Tristan!”

Coach Isaac’s booming voice shatters the moment like a brick through glass. He’s grinning broadly, blocking my entire field of vision with his broad frame.

“Hell of a finish, right?” he says, grinning. “Jamie played out of his mind tonight. We need to talk about the fundraiser next week. The board wants to—”

“Coach.”

I try to sidestep him, craning my neck to see over his shoulder.

The spot on the stairs is empty.

My heart drops straight through my stomach.

“Tristan? Did you hear me?” Coach Isaac frowns, oblivious to the catastrophe unfolding in front of him. “Jamie mentioned you might be able to—”

“I’ll call you,” I cut him off harshly, not even looking at him as I roughly push past him. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I take the stairs three at a time, shoved by celebrating students and parents spilling into the aisles, then push through the heavy double doors at the entrance, emerging into the cold night air.

The parking lot is crowded but thinning. Headlights flash across wet pavement. Car doors slam. People laugh, call goodbyes, celebrate the win as they walk toward their cars.

I search every face, every dark outfit, every figure crossing beneath the yellow lot lights.

Nothing.

I walk farther, then faster, along the curb, between rows of cars, towards the far end of the lot, where shadows swallow the spaces between parked vehicles.

Still nothing.

“Fuck!” I hiss under my breath.

He’s gone.