Chapter 16 Secret Shared
Dante POV
The locker room settles into that hollow quiet that only comes after a hard practice. The noise drains out slowly first the laughter, then the metal clang of lockers, until all that’s left is breathing and the low hum of the lights. I sit a few benches away from Micah and pretend to retie my shoes even though they’re already tight.
He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, sweat sliding down his temple like he hasn’t noticed it yet.
“You look like hell,” I say, not unkindly.
He exhales through his nose. “Thanks. Really motivating.”
I glance at him then, openly. His shoulders rise and fall too fast, chest still working like he’s mid-drill. “I’m serious,” I say. “You’re running on empty.”
He doesn’t look at me. “I’m fine.”
That word again. I stand and move closer, stopping right in front of him. He finally lifts his head, eyes flashing with irritation before something else slips in uncertainty, maybe. I lean against the locker behind him, casual enough to make it worse.
“You don’t have to say that to me,” I tell him.
His jaw tightens. “Why not?”
I shrug. “Because I know what it looks like when someone’s pretending.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to decide whether to call my bluff. “You think you know everything.”
“No,” I say. “Just that feeling.”
That gets his attention. He straightens slightly. “What feeling?”
I sit beside him before I can overthink it. Not touching, but close enough that the heat between us has nowhere to go. “The one where you’re carrying something heavier than the game,” I say. “And you’re scared if you put it down, everything else will fall apart.”
His breath stutters. He looks away fast. “You’re projecting.”
I smile, because that’s almost funny. “Maybe.”
Silence stretches. I let it. Then I lean back, eyes on the ceiling, like this isn’t calculated.
“When I was a sophomore,” I say, “I used to stay late too. Extra drills. Extra reps. Thought if I worked hard enough, the rest wouldn’t matter.”
Micah glances at me from the corner of his eye.
“The rest?”
I turn my head slowly, meet his gaze, and don’t look away. “Who I was actually attracted to.”
His fingers curl into his shorts. He doesn’t speak.
“I dated girls,” I continue. “Good ones. Smart ones. Everyone thought I had it figured out.” I huff a quiet laugh. “I almost believed it myself.”
Micah swallows. “And?”
“And it didn’t stick,” I say. “Because lies don’t.”
He looks at me fully now, something raw in his expression. “You’re… you’re just telling me this?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
“Why?” His voice drops.
I tilt my head. “Because you look like I did.”
That lands. I see it in the way his shoulders tense, in the way he presses his lips together like he’s holding something back.
“I don’t know what you think you see,” he says quietly.
I lean in just enough for him to feel it. “I see you watching me during drills,” I say. “I see you freeze when someone gets too close. And I see how hard you try not to care.”
He stands abruptly. “You’re wrong.”
I don’t move. “Then why are you shaking?”
He looks down at his hands like he hadn’t noticed. “This is inappropriate.”
I nod once. “Then walk away.”
He doesn’t.
We leave the locker room together a few minutes later, the storm already raging outside. Rain pounds the windows, thunder cracking close enough to rattle the doors. We stop under the awning, trapped.
“Great,” Micah mutters. “Just what I need.”
I lean against the wall, watching him pace. “You okay?”
He scoffs. “You really don’t quit.”
“I warned you,” I say. “I’m persistent.”
He stops, turns to face me. “You can’t just say things like that and expect me to...” He cuts himself off, breath uneven.
“Expect you to what?” I ask softly.
His eyes flicker to my mouth, then away. “Forget it.”
I step closer. Not touching. Never rushing. “You don’t have to figure anything out tonight,” I say. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“That’s the problem,” he says. “You’re acting like you do.”
I smile, slow and calm. “Do I?”
The thunder hits again, louder this time. He flinches, and before he can stop himself, his hand grips my sleeve. It’s brief. Instinctive. He realizes what he’s done and freezes.
I look down at his hand, then back up at him. “Micah.”
He doesn’t let go. “I shouldn’t...”
“You don’t have to finish that,” I say.
His fingers loosen but don’t leave. His voice is barely audible. “You make it hard to think.”
I lean in, just enough for my breath to brush his ear. “That’s not an accident.”
His grip tightens again.
I straighten and gently step back, breaking the contact myself. Control matters. He needs to feel it.
“Go inside,” I say. “Before you catch a cold.”
He stares at me like he wants to argue, like he wants to say something else entirely. Then he nods once and turns away.
As he disappears down the hall, I let the smile return.
He trusted me with the truth without saying a word.
And that was more than enough for now.