Chapter 17 Public Glances
Micah’s POV
Practice starts wrong.
I feel it the moment I step onto the court, like the air is too tight, like every sound is sharper than it should be. Sneakers squeal, balls thud, someone laughs too loud, and my shoulders lock up instead of loosening. I stretch anyway, forcing my body into routine, because routine is the only thing that still makes sense.
Dante is already there.
He’s talking to Coach near the sideline, head tilted, hands loose at his sides. He doesn’t look at me at first. That should be a relief. It isn’t.
When he finally does glance over, it’s brief, almost lazy. His eyes flick to my ankle, then my face, then away again. The look lasts maybe half a second, but it lands like a hand at the base of my spine.
“You good?” Max asks, dropping his bag beside mine.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly.
He squints at me. “You sure? You look… jumpy.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, bending to retie my laces even though they don’t need it. My hands are steady. My chest isn’t.
Coach blows the whistle, and we move into warmups. Lines, drills, muscle memory. I focus on the floor, the rhythm, the burn. I don’t look for Dante.
That doesn’t stop him from finding me.
During defensive slides, I feel him behind me before I hear him. Not close enough to touch, not far enough to ignore. When I stumble on a pivot, his hand snaps out, catching my elbow before I can fully lose balance.
“Careful,” he says, loud enough for the line to hear.
I straighten fast. “I had it.”
His thumb presses once, deliberate, before he lets go. “I know.”
Max’s head turns. So does someone else’s. I feel heat crawl up my neck.
We reset. The drill continues. I keep my distance this time.
During scrimmage, Dante guards me. Of course he does.
“Switch,” Coach calls.
Dante steps into my space like it’s instinct. His forearm brushes my side as he settles, casual but unmistakable. His voice drops. “Eyes up.”
“I know,” I mutter.
He smirks. “Show me.”
Every time I drive, he’s there. Every cut, every fake. He blocks my path, shadows my steps, forces me to work harder than anyone else on the floor. When I finally break free and sink a shot, I don’t celebrate.
I look at him.
His nod is slow. Satisfied.
“Nice,” he says.
I jog back on defense, pulse racing. Pride flares before embarrassment slams into it. Everyone saw that exchange. Everyone.
“Since when are you Dante’s pet project?” Max mutters as we line up again.
I almost trip. “What?”
He shrugs. “He’s all over you.”
“That’s not...” I stop myself. “He’s captain.”
“Yeah,” Max says. “But he doesn’t correct everyone like that.”
Dante calls for the ball. Max passes it to him without breaking eye contact with me.
“Just saying,” Max adds quietly. “Looks personal.”
The word sticks.
Later, during water break, Dante hands me a bottle before I can grab one myself. His fingers linger for half a second too long when I take it.
“Hydrate,” he says.
“I know how to drink water,” I reply.
His smile widens, amused. “Humor me.”
I twist the cap, aware of the stares. Someone coughs behind us. Coach watches from across the court, expression unreadable.
Max leans in. “Dude.”
“What?” I hiss.
“You don’t see it?”
I take a long drink just to give myself something to do. “See what?”
“That he’s marking territory,” Max says.
I choke slightly. “That’s insane.”
“Is it?” Max asks. “Because from where I’m standing..”
Coach’s whistle cuts him off. “Back to work.”
Practice gets worse.
Dante adjusts my positioning mid-drill, hands hovering too close, voice steady but firm. “Not like that. Like this.”
“I know the play,” I snap.
He doesn’t rise to it. “Then run it right.”
I do. Perfectly. He claps once, sharp and approving.
“Good,” he says
The word hits harder than criticism ever could.
By the end, I’m drenched in sweat and something else I don’t want to name. As we cool down, Dante stretches beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. When I wince rolling my shoulder, he notices immediately.
“You tweak it?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say again.
He tilts his head, studying me. “Let me see.”
“I said.”
His fingers brush my arm, light but certain. I freeze.
“I said let me see,” he repeats, softer now.
I swallow. “It’s nothing.”
Max clears his throat loudly. “Coach, you want us to. ..”
“Five-minute stretch,” Coach calls. “Then showers.”
Dante’s hand drops. He straightens, expression unreadable. “After,” he says quietly. “We’ll check it after.”
That we lands heavy.
In the locker room, the noise swells again. Jokes. Towels snapping. Someone’s music playing too loud. I keep my head down, changing fast.
Max sits beside me, lowering his voice. “You need to be careful.”
“With what?” I ask.
“With him,” he says. “People are noticing.”
I laugh, a little too sharp. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Max leans back. “Because he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since practice ended.”
I glance up before I can stop myself.
Dante stands across the room, talking to another guy. His eyes flick to me, brief but precise. When they catch mine, he doesn’t look away.
I do.
In the shower, I let the water pound against my back, trying to rinse off the feeling of being watched. It doesn’t work. When I step out, Dante’s waiting near the lockers, towel slung low, posture relaxed.
“Shoulder,” he says.
I hesitate. Then I step closer, turning slightly so he can see. He presses gently, fingers sure, professional. My breath stutters anyway.
“Does that hurt?” he asks.
“A little,” I admit.
His thumb presses again, slower this time. “You push yourself too hard.”
I laugh weakly. “You’re one to talk.”
He meets my eyes. “I push what’s worth it.”
Something in his tone makes my chest tighten.
Max walks past, pausing. “Everything good here?”
Dante doesn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
I nod, too fast. “Yeah.”
Max watches us for another second before moving on.
When Dante steps back, his hand drops reluctantly. “Get some rest,” he says. “Tomorrow’s lighter.”
“Okay,” I reply.
As I grab my bag, I feel it again that pull between pride and shame. Part of me stands taller under his attention. Another part wants to disappear.
As we leave the locker room, I catch Max’s reflection in the glass. He’s watching me, concern etched deep.
Dante walks ahead, then glances back, making sure I’m following.
And I do.
Whether I mean to or not.