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Rowan.

Sitting beside him.

Laptop open.

Hair tied back.

Focused.

But when her eyes landed on me, just for half a second—

something shifted.

Not obvious.

Not dramatic.

Just there.

Then it was gone.

Professional again.

“Let’s keep this simple,” the interviewer said. “Athlete profile. Background, mindset, NYC preparation.”

I sat down.

Rowan didn’t say anything at first.

She just typed.

Watching.

Listening.

Not reacting.

Which somehow made it worse.

ROWAN

I told myself I was fine.

I wasn’t.

Because seeing him like that—on the other side of a structured setup instead of a gym conversation—felt different.

Controlled.

Framed.

Like he wasn’t just Mason anymore.

He wasmaterial.

The interviewer started.

“Let’s talk about pressure,” he said.