Chapter 29 Small Victories
Micah POV
The morning after everything spilled out in my dorm, I woke up with a familiar heaviness in my limbs but the ache wasn’t just physical. It was the kind that settled into the space between thoughts, the kind that whispered reminders of how close I’d gotten to unraveling completely in front of Dante. I lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment when I’d leaned against him like I had the right to.
The memory made my pulse skip, then rush, betraying me before I even swung my legs out of bed.
By the time I reached the court, the gym smelled like pine cleaner and determination. Dribbling echoed from different corners; players were scattered, warming up, laughing, still half-asleep. Max shot me a glance from across the floor sharp, measuring but he didn’t say anything. For once, his suspicion felt distant, unimportant. My mind was already tracking someone else.
Dante stood near the sideline with a clipboard tucked under his arm, talking to Coach Rivera. His posture was relaxed, but I’d gotten good at reading the small tells, the slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers tapped against the clipboard in a rhythm only he understood. When his eyes flicked toward me, brief but deliberate, something tightened low in my stomach.
I swallowed and grabbed a ball from the rack.
Play normal. Act normal.
Pretend last night wasn’t still sitting under your skin like heat.
But my body moved differently today lighter, sharper, as if some knot inside me had loosened from the simple fact that someone had seen me break and didn’t turn away.
Alex jogged over, bright-eyed as always. “Yo, Micah, warm up one on one?”
“Yeah,” I said, bouncing the ball against the polished floor. “Let’s go.”
We started slow. Alex tried to cut left, but I slid with him easily, stealing the ball with a quick swipe that made him blink. “Damn,” he laughed.
“Okay, chill, superstar.”
“I’m chill,” I muttered, but even I heard the lie.
Energy hummed through me, focused, direct. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just… alive.
Play after play, I kept winning. Clean shots, tight footwork, no hesitation. For the first time, I wasn’t chasing the game. It was following me.
A few teammates noticed.
“Yo, Micah’s cooking today!”
“Where’d this come from?”
“He’s quick way quicker.”
Their voices washed over me, warm and electric, sinking into the parts of me that were always starved for approval.
Alex shook his head, breathless. “Bro, what got into you?”
I almost laughed. If I answered honestly, I’d say:
A quiet knock. A warm shoulder. A voice saying I see you even when I can’t see myself.
Instead, I shrugged. “Just… slept better.”
When practice officially started, Coach Rivera raised his whistle. “Pair up! Today we’re focusing on defensive pressure and counter speed.”
Max started toward me, but Dante’s voice cut through the noise.
“Micah, here.”
My stomach dipped. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried, threading into me with the quiet precision he always used. A few players glanced between us, curious. Some raised eyebrows. I pretended not to notice and walked over.
He tossed me a fresh ball hard enough that I felt the impact through my palms, soft enough that I knew he’d been calculating the exact force.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, ignoring how my throat tightened.
“You look sharp today.” His eyes scanned me not in the way a coach assessed a player, but like he was taking inventory of the pieces he’d put back together the night before.
I forced my gaze away. “Let’s just run it.”
He smirked, faint but unmistakable. “Then don’t fall behind.”
We ran drills. Harsh ones. The kind that usually shredded my stamina within minutes. But today, something was different. When he pushed, I pushed back harder. When he accelerated, I matched him. When he suddenly switched direction testing me, I pivoted cleanly, surprising even myself.
A few players paused their own drills to watch.
“Damn!”
“He’s keeping up with Dante!”
“Yo, what is happening today?”
My chest burned with exertion, sweat slick on my neck, muscles trembling but I didn’t back down. Every time Dante threw a challenge at me, I met it with a stubbornness I didn’t know I had in me.
He stopped abruptly after another fast break, breathing harder than usual, eyes narrowed in appraisal.
“Again?” I asked, wiping sweat from my forehead.
He studied me for a moment too long. “You’re pushing.”
“You told me not to slow down.”
“I didn’t expect you to take it personally.”
I smirked before I could stop myself. “Guess you were wrong.”
The corner of his mouth twitched rare and real. “Guess I was.”
We kept going. Minutes blurred into half an hour. My lungs burned, but adrenaline carried me past the point where I’d normally collapse. And the entire time, I could feel his attention heavy, focused, dangerous in ways I couldn’t name.
At the water break, Alex slapped my back. “Bro, you’re insane today. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“You did good out there,” another teammate said, grinning. “Fast as hell."
Even Max couldn’t hide the surprise on his face, though his version of praise came out sharper. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
They were just harmless comments, meant to hype me up but each word landed deeper than it should have. Their recognition felt like validation I’d been chasing for months, maybe years. I let the praise sink in, warm and light, almost dizzying.
But the moment my eyes drifted toward Dante standing near the benches, watching me with a look that wasn’t entirely coach like the warmth in my chest twisted.
Was I proud because I had improved…
or because he had seen me improve?
Practice resumed with scrimmage games. Coach split us into teams, and by some coincidence or maybe just the universe acknowledging my emotional fragility Dante stood right behind my team’s line, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the court.
I tried not to look. Tried to ignore the weight of him, the expectation, the quiet claim he seemed to cast over me like a shadow I wasn’t sure I wanted to escape.
We started strong. I nailed a tight pass to Alex, then cut through two defenders to get open for a quick return. The ball hit my hands with perfect timing, and without thinking, I launched the shot.
Swish.
Cheers erupted around me. “Micah! Holy—did you see that?”
“Yo! That release was clean!”
My face heated, not from the effort, but from the wave of pride that washed through me sharp, overwhelming.
And then, like instinct, my eyes jerked toward Dante.
He didn’t clap. He didn’t smile big. He just gave a small nod barely noticeable, almost lazy.
But the look in his eyes?
Approval, possession. A silent I made that happen. The sound around me blurred for a second, like the world had been turned down just enough for me to feel the thud of my heartbeat. I inhaled sharply, pretending the rush was from adrenaline and not the way his gaze pinned me in place.
We kept playing and I kept winning. Faster footwork, cleaner cuts and sharper passes.
Every victory fueled the next. My body felt like it was finally doing what it was built for, what it had been reaching for without realizing it. But beneath the thrill, something unsettling stirred.
Because every time I did something right, every time someone shouted my name in excitement…
I looked for him.
And he was always already looking back.
Practice ended with the team buzzing. Coach Rivera patted my shoulder with rare enthusiasm. “Hell of a job today, Micah. Whatever groove you found stay in it.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
Alex threw an arm around me, grinning. “Yo, celebrate with us later. Food court, 7pm?”
“Yeah,” I said, though my focus was drifting elsewhere.
As the guys headed toward the locker room, laughter echoing in the gym, I lingered on the court, catching my breath. Sweat dripped down my spine, my throat dry, my body thrumming with leftover energy.
Dante approached quietly, pulling me back into that invisible orbit I pretended I didn’t feel.
“You were good today,” he said.
“Good?” I echoed, half laughing. “I was better than good.”
His smirk sharpened. “You want real praise or the watered-down version?”
I rolled my eyes. “Go on then. Impress me.”
He stepped closer too close lowering his voice until it scraped gently against the space between us.
“You weren’t following the pace today,” he murmured. “You were setting it.”
My chest tightened. “So… you’re saying I did well.”
“I’m saying,” he said, gaze steady, “you’re becoming exactly what I knew you could be.”
The compliment hit deeper than I was ready for. Too deep. Deeper than a coach’s approval should matter.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t get soft on me now.”
He chuckled once. “Soft isn’t the word you want to use around me.”
My breath hitched quiet, involuntary.
Silence stretched, charged, until I forced myself to step back slightly.
“I should go,” I said. “The guys are waiting.”
He nodded. “Go ahead.”
But as I turned, his voice stopped me—soft, confident, dangerous.
“Micah.”
I looked back. “Don’t lose this edge,” he said. “You were brilliant today.”
Something warm and traitorous unfurled in my chest.
“I’ll try not to,” I murmured.
Walking away, my heart pounding in my ears, I realized I wasn’t proud of practice because of the team’s praise.
I was proud because I’d earned his approval.
Because his voice lingered longer than cheers.
Because his gaze felt like gravity.
And that terrified me.
Because the better I became, the brighter I shined, the harder it was to pretend that Dante wasn’t the one holding the match.