Chapter 25 Rumors Begin
Micah POV
I hear it before I understand it. A pause in conversation when I walk past. A laugh that cuts off too fast, like someone slammed a door shut in the middle of it. By the time I reach the locker room, my shoulders are already tight, like my body knows something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
“Yo, Brooks,” someone calls. “You coming to lifts later?”
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly.
He nods, but his eyes flick past me, toward the doorway, and then back again like he’s checking who might be watching.
Inside the locker room, the air feels thicker than usual. Conversations hum low, clustered, broken into fragments I can’t quite grab onto. My name floats by once, maybe twice, always followed by a quick hush. I keep my head down and start changing, pretending I don’t feel like I’m standing under a spotlight.
“Hey,” Jamal says from the bench across from me. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I answer, forcing a shrug. “Why?”
He hesitates, then looks away. “Just asking.”
That’s when I know. Not what it is exactly, but that something has started moving without me. Rumors don’t announce themselves. They creep, quiet and patient, waiting for you to notice when it’s already too late.
Practice is worse. Every pass feels watched, every mistake magnified. When I glance toward the sidelines, I catch Alison standing there, arms crossed, lips curved in something that isn’t quite a smile. She doesn’t look away when our eyes meet. She just tilts her head, like she’s appraising damage she’s already caused.
“What’s her problem?” Max mutters under his breath during a water break.
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice.
Dante steps in then, smooth and effortless, handing me a bottle without a word.
“You’re rushing,” he says calmly. “Slow your feet.”
“I’m fine,” I snap, then immediately regret it.
He studies me for a second, eyes steady, unbothered. “I know.”
That’s the thing about Dante. When everything around me feels loud, he doesn’t raise his voice to match it. He lowers his instead, like he expects the world to adjust to him. Somehow, it always does.
After practice, the whispers follow me into the hallway. Two guys from another team walk past, one nudging the other with his elbow.
“That him?” one asks, not as quietly as he thinks.
I keep walking, heart pounding, pretending I didn’t hear.
I don’t see Dante until dinner. He’s already seated, relaxed, talking with a couple of teammates like nothing has shifted. When he spots me, his expression doesn’t change, but his body angles slightly, making space without making a show of it. I sit, grateful and furious all at once.
“You okay?” he asks, casual enough for anyone listening.
“People are talking,” I say under my breath.
He nods once. “I know.”
That calm almost breaks me.
“You know?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he says. “And you’re still here.”
Alison makes her move later that night. It’s subtle, the way she does it, slipping between people, planting seeds with a laugh and a raised eyebrow. I catch fragments as I pass close, always together, captain’s favorite. None of it is a lie. None of it is safe.
She corners me near the vending machines. The hallway is empty except for the hum of fluorescent lights.
“You settling in okay?” she asks sweetly.
“Fine,” I reply.
She smiles wider. “Good. Wouldn’t want things getting… complicated.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
She leans in just enough to feel invasive. “Relax. I’m just saying people notice things.”
I leave before she can say more. My hands shake all the way back to the suite. When I open the door, Dante is there, sitting on the couch, phone in hand. He looks up like he’s been waiting.
“She spoke to you,” he says.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
I tell him. Every word. He listens without interrupting, without pacing, without any visible reaction at all. When I finish, he exhales slowly and sets his phone down.
“She won’t touch you,” he says.
“You don’t know that,” I snap.
“I do,” he replies, voice even. “Because if she does, she’s crossing me.”
The certainty in his tone sends a shiver through me.
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I say.
“It should,” he answers. “I’m very hard to ignore.”
The next day, the rumors get louder. Someone asks me if I’m getting special treatment. Someone else jokes about how often I’m “with the captain.” I laugh when I’m supposed to, deflect when I can, but it feels like trying to hold water in my hands. No matter how careful I am, something keeps slipping through.
Dante doesn’t change. He still corrects me on the court, still challenges me, still steps in when lines start to blur. When Max makes a pointed comment during drills, Dante shuts it down with a look that doesn’t need words. The message lands anyway.
“Don’t,” Dante says quietly to him.
Max raises his hands. “Just joking.”
“Then joke about something else.”
I should feel embarrassed. I do. But underneath it is something else, something warmer and more dangerous. Relief. Gratitude. The knowledge that someone is standing between me and the worst of it.
After practice, I finally lose it.
“This is your fault,” I say, low and sharp.
Dante doesn’t flinch. “Say it again.”
“You’re too close,” I whisper. “Everyone sees it.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell sweat and soap and something distinctly his.
“Do you want me to pull away?” he asks.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
He studies my face, then nods like he’s made a decision.
“Then let them talk,” he says. “They always do.”
“And if it gets worse?” I ask.
“Then I’ll handle it.”
That night, my phone buzzes nonstop. Messages I don’t answer. Group chats I mute. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every glance, every word, every rumor like I can somehow undo them by thinking hard enough. From the living room, I hear Dante moving around, unbothered.
When he knocks on my door, I don’t answer right away.
“Micah,” he says softly.
I open it just enough to see him. “What?”
“You’re not alone,” he says.
I almost laugh.
“That’s the problem,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, but his voice stays steady. “No. It’s not.”
The rumors don’t stop. They won’t. I know that now. But neither does Dante. Wherever I go, he’s there not clinging, not hiding, just present. A constant. A shield that feels safer every day, even as I start to wonder what it would cost me to lose it.
And the scariest part isn’t what people are saying.
It’s how much I want him to stay anyway.