Chapter 10 THE FIRST FAVOR
(Dante's POV)
Micah didn’t approach me right away after practice, which told me more than his words ever could. He lingered by the bleachers, tying and untying his laces like he’d forgotten how knots worked, glancing up every few seconds to see if I was still there. I pretended to be busy wiping down equipment, counting beats in my head, letting the silence stretch until it started to itch.
When he finally walked over, his voice was careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice. “Dante… can I ask you something about the next match?” I looked up slowly, met his eyes, and nodded once, already knowing I had him.
We sat on the edge of the court, close enough that his knee brushed mine when he shifted, close enough that he noticed and didn’t move away. He talked fast, words tumbling over each other about formations, about pressure from the opposing team, about where he kept hesitating. I let him finish before I spoke, because letting someone empty themselves first made what came next land harder. “You’re overthinking,” I said calmly, watching his shoulders tense. He frowned, defensive, and I leaned in just a little.
“You don’t trust your instincts yet. That’s the real problem.” He swallowed, eyes flicking to my mouth before snapping back up, and that small crack in his composure was everything.
He asked how to fix it, exactly like I knew he would, and I felt the familiar satisfaction curl low in my chest. I didn’t give him the answer right away. I asked him questions instead, made him talk through his choices, pointed out every moment he second guessed himself, every time he looked to someone else for confirmation. “You hesitate,” I said quietly, “and hesitation gets punished.” Micah’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “So what do I do?” he asked, softer now. I smiled, just enough for him to notice. “You listen to me,” I said. “And next time, you commit.”
The opportunity came sooner than expected, because the universe has a sense of timing when it wants to. During drills, Micah misjudged a landing, his foot slipping just enough to send him off balance, and the sound he made wasn’t loud but it was sharp. I was already moving before anyone else reacted, hands catching him at the waist, pulling him back upright with controlled force. He froze against me for half a second too long, breath stuttering, fingers gripping my sleeve like it was an anchor. “Easy,” I murmured, low enough that only he could hear. “I’ve got you.” His face flushed, whether from exertion or something else, and when I let go, he looked at me like I’d just done something heroic.
The coach waved it off as nothing serious, but Micah stayed close to me after that, like proximity itself was reassurance. “Thanks,” he said quietly when we stepped aside, rubbing his ankle more out of habit than pain. I crouched, checked it quickly, my hands steady, professional, deliberate. “You’re fine,” I told him. “But next time, don’t rush the pivot. Trust your weight.” He nodded, eyes following my movements, and I could feel his attention like a physical thing. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here,” he added, half-joking, half-not. I looked up at him then, met his gaze, and let the moment sit. “You’d manage,” I said. “But better is… you don’t have to.”
After practice, he stuck around again, which was becoming a pattern, and I made a point of noticing it out loud. “You’re hovering,” I said, amused, slinging my bag over my shoulder. He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Just… thinking about what you said earlier,” he replied. I tilted my head, studying him, letting my eyes linger without apology. “And?” I prompted. He exhaled. “I think you’re right. I do hesitate. I just...” He stopped, searching for words, and I finished the sentence for him. “You want someone to tell you when you’re doing it right.”
His silence was answer enough.
I walked with him toward the exit, our steps naturally falling into sync, and kept my tone casual even as I tightened the thread between us. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for guidance,” I said. “But you need to choose who you listen to.” He glanced at me, brows knitting together. “And you think I should listen to you,” he said, testing it. I smiled, not denying it. “I think,” I replied, “that I’ve proven I know what I’m talking about.” He considered that, chewing on his lower lip, and the way his gaze dipped again wasn’t accidental. “Yeah,” he said finally. “You have.”
By the time we parted ways, Micah looked lighter, like the confusion from earlier had shifted into something else dependence, maybe, or relief. He thanked me again, more sincerely this time, and I clapped his shoulder, firm and grounding.
“Anytime,” I told him. “If you need help, you come to me first.” He nodded without hesitation, like the idea already made sense in his head. As I watched him walk away, I felt that familiar satisfaction settle in, slow and assured. The first favor was always the easiest. And as I turned toward the locker room, a private smirk tugged at my mouth, because I knew exactly what I’d just taken and how willingly he’d given it.