Chapter 32 Subtle Snares
Dante's Pov
Micah avoided my eyes the next morning. Not obviously he wasn’t smart enough for that kind of precision but in the small, jittery ways that told me exactly what I needed to know. He lingered at the far end of the court longer than usual, stretching just a little too slowly, tying his shoes with the intensity of someone trying to anchor themselves.
When I walked past him, he flinched like my shadow had brushed against his skin. Interesting. Very interesting. I watched him for a full minute before speaking. My team knew better than to interrupt when I was assessing someone. Micah kept pretending to adjust his laces even though they were already tight, shoulders rising and falling too quickly under his shirt.
His exhaustion from last night had added a fragile edge to him that I found… intoxicating. He thought avoiding my eyes would save him from drowning, when all it did was make me crave the moment he finally looked up. “Micah,” I called, voice smooth enough to make his head jerk up on instinct. “You’re with me today.”
His eyes widened, and then just as quickly dropped to the floor. “Y—yeah. Okay.” Max watched the exchange from across the court, confusion melting into suspicion, suspicion into something sharper. His jaw tightened. I ignored him. Practice began. And I changed everything.
“Pair drills,” I announced, tossing a ball toward the center of the court. “Micah with me. Everyone else, find someone.” The ripple through the team was immediate confusion, glances, a few raised eyebrows but none of them questioned me out loud. They never did. I had spent too long making sure of that.
Micah walked toward me slowly, like each step was a negotiation with himself. “Closer,” I said as he stopped a foot away. “I’m not coaching you from across the room.” He swallowed and stepped into my space. Good boy. I adjusted his stance first, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, then sliding down his arm like I was guiding him through the motion but my hand stayed longer than necessary.
Long enough for him to stiffen. Long enough for the muscle in his jaw to twitch. The kind of reaction you’d miss unless you were looking for it. And I was. “Relax,” I murmured, leaning in slightly. “You’re too tight in your shoulders.” He inhale a tiny, shaky sound and I felt something inside me sharpen with satisfaction.
Max slammed a ball into the floor on the opposite side of the court. Hard. My smile curved, small and secret. Perfect. We ran the drill. I corrected Micah constantly. Hands on his hips to shift his stance. Fingers on his chin to force his gaze up. A palm on the small of his back to guide him forward.
Anyone else would call it coaching. Anyone paying attention would feel the air between us twisting tighter with every contact. Max was paying attention. When I stepped behind Micah to adjust his shooting arc, my hand covering his like I owned the movement, Max finally snapped.
“Coach.” He didn’t say my name. He didn’t have to. His tone was a challenge. I turned slowly. “Yes?” Max stood rigid, arms crossed, face flushed with something between anger and disbelief. The rest of the team pretended to keep practicing, but their eyes flickered toward us whenever they thought I wasn’t looking.
Micah stiffened beside me, sensing the shift in the air. “I don’t think the drills are… evenly assigned today,” Max said, carefully. “Some of us could use more of your input too.” The room held its breath. I tilted my head, studying him. “Are you questioning my coaching choices?”
“No,” Max said quickly. “I’m just saying...” “Because it sounds like you’re questioning me.” My voice stayed calm, light even, but Max’s posture faltered. “If you’d like specialized attention, you’re welcome to earn it. But throwing a ball loud enough to crack the floor won’t do it.”
A few guys snickered under their breath. Max’s eyes flared. “That’s not what...” “Then what is it?” I asked, stepping toward him with deliberate slowness. “Jealous that someone else is improving faster than you? Or jealous that someone else is willing to be coached properly?”
Micah sucked in a breath beside me—quiet, barely audible—but I heard it. Max’s mouth opened, then closed. His shoulders sagged in humiliation, and he backed up a step without meaning to. I didn’t smile. I didn’t need to.
“Get back to your drill,” I said, turning away from him like he wasn’t worth another second of my attention. He didn’t argue. Even better—he looked at Micah before obeying. A deep, searching look full of questions he didn’t have the courage to ask out loud.
Good. Let him burn. The rest of practice passed in that same slow torture Micah tense, hyperaware; Max quiet, simmering; every accidental brush of my hand another reminder of who held control here. By the time I finally dismissed them, Micah looked ready to bolt.
Which is why I didn’t let him. “Micah,” I said as he tried to slip toward the locker room. “Stay for a moment.” He froze like his name alone had trapped him. Then he turned, eyes down, voice barely steady. “Did I… do something wrong?”
The question almost made me laugh. Instead, I stepped close enough that he had to tilt his head up or stare at my chest. “You keep acting like you’re afraid to look at me,” I said softly. “I’m correcting that.” His breath trembled in his throat.
“Go shower, Micah. We’re not done talking.” He disappeared into the locker room without another word. I waited a few minutes. Then I followed. Not inside, of course he wasn’t ready for that. Yet. But I approached the row of lockers just as he stepped into the showers, the water turning on with a hollow rush.
His locker was easy to open. He always forgot to spin the dial on the lock. I slipped a small folded note inside, placing it right where his hand would touch first. Stop running. You look at me anyway. Simple. Honest. True.
Then I closed the locker quietly and leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed. Minutes later, Micah returned hair dripping, shirt clinging to his chest, skin flushed from hot water. He grabbed his locker handle without lookin and froze when he saw the note.
His fingers hovered over it. His throat moved in a hard swallow. He looked around the empty locker room, breath catching as if he could feel someone watching him. He wasn’t wrong. He unfolded the note slowly, eyes scanning the words, lips parting just slightly as the meaning sank in.
A shiver went through him visible, sharp, undeniable. I stepped forward just enough for my shadow to fall across the floor. Micah’s head snapped up, eyes rushing to find the source. He found me. And the way his breath hitched told me the snares were working exactly as intended.