Chapter 12 The First Conflict
Dante’s POV
Micah didn’t look back at me as he walked away from Alison, but I watched the tension ripple through him anyway. His shoulders were too tight, his steps too measured, like he was trying to keep himself from running. He adjusted the strap of his bag twice for no reason at all, then paused near the court doors as if debating whether to leave or stay. I didn’t call out to him. I let the silence do the work.
Practice started ten minutes later, and Micah took his place without looking in my direction. That alone told me everything. He stood farther from me than usual during warm ups, stretching with his back half-turned, eyes glued to the floor. When I crossed the court to grab a ball, he shifted instinctively, like his body had learned my orbit before his mind did.
“Brooks,” Coach barked, clapping his hands. “You’re running point today.”
Micah nodded, jaw tight. “Yes, Coach.”
He still didn’t look at me.
I took my spot at shooting guard and waited. When Micah finally glanced up to call the play, our eyes met and he looked away immediately. Too fast. Too deliberate. I let my gaze stay where it was, steady and unblinking, following him as he moved. He felt it. His dribble stuttered just slightly, the ball bouncing half a beat off rhythm.
“Focus,” Max snapped from the wing.
Micah flushed but recovered, pushing the ball forward. He ran the set cleanly, sharp passes, fast cuts, clean execution. Too clean. He was playing like someone afraid to make mistakes, not like someone free. I filed that away.
On the next possession, I slowed deliberately, arriving at my spot a second late. Micah noticed instantly. His head turned, brows knitting together.
“Now, Dante,” he hissed under his breath.
I didn’t respond. I just met his eyes and held them.
Something flickered there anger, confusion, something dangerously close to challenge. His chest rose as he inhaled, then he snapped his attention back to the play and adjusted. He covered for me without comment. Good boy.
During drills, Coach split us into pairs. When Micah realized who he was matched with, he froze for half a second too long.
“Problem?” Coach asked.
“No,” Micah said quickly. “No problem.”
He stepped toward me, careful not to brush my arm. I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice so only he could hear.
“You don’t have to stand so far away,” I said.
“I’m fine,” he replied, eyes straight ahead.
“Are you?”
He didn’t answer. He just shifted his stance, widening it like he needed more ground beneath his feet. When the drill started, I guarded him close but not close enough for anyone else to notice. Every time he pivoted, I adjusted, staying just inside his awareness. My presence pressed against him like heat.
He missed the shot.
Micah swore softly under his breath, frustration breaking through his control. He reset, wiped his hands on his shorts, and tried again. This time he made it, but his eyes flicked to me immediately after, like he was checking whether I’d seen.
I smiled.
Coach blew the whistle. “Again.”
We ran it again. And again. Each time Micah moved, I watched how his breathing changed when I stepped closer, how his shoulders tightened when my shadow crossed his. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t need to. The space between us did enough damage on its own.
During water break, Micah grabbed a bottle and turned away from the group. I followed, slow enough not to draw attention.
“You’re distracted,” I said casually.
He took a long drink, then capped the bottle too tightly. “I’m tired.”
“Liar.”
He stiffened. “What?”
I leaned against the wall beside him, close enough that he could feel me without looking. “You’ve been off since this morning,” I continued. “You don’t miss shots like that.”
“Everyone has bad days,” he snapped.
There it was. Sharp. Defensive. Real.
I turned my head just enough to catch his profile. His jaw was clenched hard, eyes bright with something he didn’t want named.
“Did Alison say something to you?” I asked.
His grip tightened on the bottle. “Why would I care what she says?”
“You didn’t answer.”
He finally looked at me then, irritation flashing across his face. “I don’t need you stepping in every time someone talks to me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m stepping in?”
“You watch,” he said quietly. “You’re always watching.”
The words landed between us, heavy and exposed. I didn’t deny it. I just tilted my head, studying him the way he accused me of.
“And you notice,” I said. “So what does that say about you?”
His breath caught. Just for a second. He looked away first.
Coach called us back to the court, but the tension didn’t leave. It followed us into the next drill, into every pass and cut. Micah avoided looking at me now, but his body still reacted hesitation when I moved, speed when I stepped back. Resistance didn’t erase instinct. It sharpened it.
During scrimmage, I intercepted a pass meant for him and scored cleanly. As we jogged back, I leaned close.
“Pay attention,” I murmured.
His eyes flashed. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“This,” he snapped. “Whatever this is.”
The buzzer cut off whatever else he might have said. Coach dismissed us soon after, clearly unaware of the quiet war playing out on his court.
In the locker room, Micah kept his back to me as he changed. He moved fast, almost frantic, like if he slowed down something would catch him. I took my time. There was no rush.
“You’re tense,” Max joked, slapping Micah lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “Relax, man.”
Micah forced a laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”
I watched his reflection in the mirror instead of looking at him directly. His eyes flicked up, met mine in the glass, then darted away. His ears were red.
When the room thinned out, I spoke.
“You don’t want people noticing,” I said calmly.
He paused. “Noticing what?”
“That you flinch every time I get close,” I replied. “That you react when I look at you.”
He turned then, frustration blazing openly now. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
Silence stretched. His chest rose and fell faster than it should have.
“You asked for boundaries,” I continued. “I’m respecting them. I haven’t touched you. Haven’t said anything out of line. So tell me what exactly is the problem?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I need space,” he said finally.
I nodded slowly. “Then take it.”
He hesitated, clearly expecting resistance. When it didn’t come, it unsettled him more than if it had.
He left without another word.
I stayed behind, sitting on the bench, replaying every second of the day. His avoidance. His sharpness. The way he bristled under my stare but never fully pulled away. Boundaries weren’t walls. They were doors ones he kept checking to see if I’d open.
I smiled to myself, calm and certain.
Micah wasn’t pulling back because he didn’t want me. He was pulling back because he wanted me too much.
And I already knew exactly how to handle that.