Chapter 15 First Test
Micah’s POV
Practice starts before my body is ready for it. The court lights glare down like they’ve been waiting all night just to catch me slipping, and my legs still feel heavy from yesterday. I roll my shoulders once, then twice, trying to shake off the strange tightness sitting under my ribs. When I look up, Dante is already watching me from midcourt.
“Micah,” Coach calls, clapping his hands. “You’re running Dante’s drills today.”
A few heads turn. I don’t miss the way Dante’s mouth curves, subtle and unreadable, like he expected this outcome. I nod anyway and jog toward him, telling myself it’s just practice, just basketball, just another day.
“Hope you slept,” Dante says quietly as I reach him. His voice is calm, almost friendly, but his eyes don’t soften. “You’re going to need it.”
I swallow and bounce the ball once. “I’m good.”
“Let’s see.”
The drill starts fast. Faster than usual. Dante sets the pace without raising his voice, weaving through cones, calling switches, demanding precision like it’s oxygen. Every time I lag even half a step behind, he glances back, eyebrow lifting in silent challenge.
“Again,” he says when I miss a pass by inches.
“That one was..”
“Again.”
My lungs burn by the fourth run. Sweat drips into my eyes, blurring the lines of the court, but Dante doesn’t slow. He circles me like a predator pretending it’s play, correcting my stance with words sharp enough to sting.
“Feet wider,” he says. “You’re off balance.”
“I’m not...”
He stops in front of me so suddenly I almost collide with his chest. “Look at me,” he says, low.
I do, because my body reacts before my pride can catch up. His gaze holds mine, steady and unblinking, and for a second the noise of the gym fades into something distant and unreal.
“Do it again,” he says.
I do.
By the time we break for water, my hands are shaking. I bend over, bracing my palms on my knees, trying to breathe through the ache crawling up my spine. Someone passes me a bottle, but Dante takes it first and holds it out to me himself.
“Drink,” he says.
Our fingers brush as I take it, and I hate the way that small contact sends a jolt through me stronger than the drill ever did. I force myself to look away as I gulp the water, telling myself it’s just exhaustion messing with my head.
“You’re pushing him hard,” one of the guys mutters nearby.
Dante doesn’t look away from me. “He can handle it.”
I straighten, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I can,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
His eyes flicker, something like approval flashing there before it disappears. “Good.”
The next set is worse. Dante guards me personally, closing space so tight I can feel his breath when he leans in. Every drive is contested, every move anticipated like he’s reading me from the inside out.
“Too slow,” he murmurs as he steals the ball clean. “You hesitate right there.”
“I don’t,” I snap, chasing him down the court.
He stops short again, spinning back toward me.
“You do,” he says. “Right before you commit.”
The words land heavier than they should. I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He’s already moving again, already demanding more, and the frustration coils tight in my chest.
By the end of practice, my jersey is soaked through. My legs feel like they might give out if I stop moving. Coach blows the whistle and calls it, but Dante doesn’t dismiss me.
“Stay,” he says, glancing at the others as they peel away. “One more.”
I hesitate. Every instinct tells me to say no, to grab my bag and disappear into the locker room. Instead, I nod.
“Run it,” he says, tossing me the ball.
We go one on one. No cones. No team. Just the sound of sneakers and breath and the ball hitting hardwood. Dante plays closer now, body angled just enough to block my path without touching me.
“Why are you fighting it?” he asks quietly as I pivot.
“Fighting what?” I shoot back.
“Me.”
I fake left, drive right, and he’s there instantly, forcing me back. “I’m not,” I say through clenched teeth.
He laughs under his breath. “You are.”
I push harder, muscles screaming, heart pounding in my ears. For a moment, I get past him, just barely, and the thrill of it sparks something reckless inside me. I glance back over my shoulder without thinking.
That’s when he reaches out and grabs my wrist.
The contact is firm, grounding, undeniable. I stop short, breath hitching, and the world narrows to the place where his hand wraps around me.
“Don’t look away,” Dante says.
I don’t know if he means on the court or something else entirely. My pulse hammers, loud and traitorous, and I can feel his thumb pressing lightly into the inside of my wrist like he’s taking my measure.
He releases me just as suddenly, stepping back as if nothing happened. “Again,” he says.
We finish without another word. When it’s over, I’m shaking so badly I have to sit down on the bench. Dante crouches in front of me, close enough that I can smell sweat and something darker underneath.
“You did well,” he says.
I laugh weakly. “You almost killed me.”
His smile is slow. “Not even close.”
The locker room is mostly empty by the time I shower. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pound down, trying to wash off the strange mix of pride and unease clinging to my skin. Dante’s voice echoes in my head, his eyes, the way he knew where I’d move before I did.
When I step out, towel around my waist, he’s there again, leaning against the lockers like he belongs.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
He studies me for a beat too long. “You’re stronger than you think.”
The words should feel encouraging. Instead, they settle heavy in my stomach. “Why do you care so much?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His gaze sharpens, something calculating flickering there. “Because I see potential,” he says. “And I don’t like wasted potential.”
I nod, even though that doesn’t answer the real question. He steps aside to let me pass, his shoulder brushing mine as I go. The contact is brief, but it sends another unwanted shiver through me.
That night, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, muscles aching, mind racing. Every time I close my eyes, I see Dante’s stare across the court, feel the grip on my wrist, hear the certainty in his voice.
I tell myself it’s admiration. Respect. The kind you feel for someone better than you, someone who pushes you to be more. But fear curls underneath it, quiet and persistent, whispering that there’s something else there too.
Something I don’t know how to name.
And worse something I’m not sure I want to escape.