Chapter 26 The Threat
Dante POV
Max has a tell.
It’s subtle, barely there, but once you see it, you can’t unsee it. His jaw tightens when something doesn’t line up the way he expects, and his eyes linger a beat too long, like he’s counting pieces on a board. I catch it halfway through warm ups, right after Micah laughs at something Jamal says and Max looks over like he’s just solved a puzzle he wasn’t supposed to.
I don’t react.
That’s rule number one.
I tie my shoes slower, let the moment pass, and file it away.
“King,” Coach calls. “You running first set.”
“Always,” I say, smiling like this is just another day.
Micah moves differently when he knows he’s being watched. Not by the crowd, not by Coach by me. His shoulders pull back, his steps sharpen, his focus narrows. It’s instinct now. Conditioning. I didn’t teach him that on purpose, but I don’t regret it.
Max shadows him during drills. Too close. Too attentive.
“Switch,” I call casually.
Max looks at me. “Coach didn’t say...”
“I did,” I reply, not raising my voice. “Rotate.”
The gym goes quiet in that way it always does when someone pushes back against authority and realizes too late they shouldn’t have. Max hesitates, then moves. Micah doesn’t look at either of us, but his breath stutters just slightly when Max steps away.
Good.
He notices.
After practice, Max corners me near the lockers. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t joke. He goes straight for the throat like he thinks that’s enough.
“You’re spending a lot of time with Brooks,” he says.
I chuckle, easy. “He’s a guard. I’m the captain. That’s how this works.”
“Not like this,” Max replies.
I lean back against the lockers, crossing my arms. “Define this.”
He opens his mouth, closes it again. Whatever he was planning to say doesn’t sound as solid out loud.
“You worried about playing time?” I ask.
His eyes flash. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” I press.
Silence stretches. I let it. Let him feel it. Let him realize he doesn’t actually have anything concrete just instinct and jealousy dressed up as concern.
“Drop it,” I say finally, tone light. “Before you embarrass yourself.”
He stiffens. “I’m just watching out for the team.”
“So am I,” I answer. “Difference is, I don’t miss.”
Word spreads fast. Not the confrontation nothing so dramatic but the shift. Max pulls back a little. Guys notice. They always do. Micah notices too, even though he pretends not to.
“You okay?” he asks me later, quiet, when no one’s close enough to hear.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Max looked pissed,” he says.
I smile at him. Not sharp. Not predatory.
Reassuring.
“Max is always pissed,” I reply. “It’s his personality.”
Micah nods, but his fingers twist together at his side. He’s learning. Patterns. Pressure points. He just doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge yet.
That night, I sit alone in the suite, laptop open, phone face down beside it. I don’t need to search hard. Max is predictable. Group chats. Old tweets. The wrong jokes at the wrong times. A half-assed complaint to an assistant coach last season that never went anywhere.
Neutralization doesn’t mean destruction.
It means redirection.
I send one text. Then another. Nothing incriminating. Just questions. Just reminders.
Just the suggestion that stirring things up rarely benefits the person holding the stick.
The next day, Max avoids me. Publicly. He laughs louder, jokes harder, overcorrects like someone trying to convince an audience he’s relaxed.
When Micah passes him in the hallway, Max stiffens, then forces a grin.
“Sup, Brooks,” he says.
Micah nods. “Hey.”
I watch from a distance, noting every reaction. Micah’s shoulders loosen when Max walks away. He exhales like he didn’t realize he was holding his breath. That alone is worth the effort.
Alison tries next. She always does when she senses a shift. She finds me after practice, leaning against the bleachers like she owns the space.
“Funny how people back off when you look at them,” she says.
“Funny how people talk when they don’t know when to stop,” I reply.
She smiles. “Careful, Dante. You’re making it obvious.”
“Only to people who are looking,” I say.
Her gaze flicks toward Micah, laughing with Jamal near the door. Something sharp flashes across her face before she masks it.
“You protecting him now?” she asks.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “I always protect what’s mine.”
She laughs, but it’s thin. “That’s what I thought.”
By the end of the week, Max keeps his distance. Not because he’s convinced. Because he’s unsure. Doubt is easier to manage than defiance.
Doubt makes people hesitate. Hesitation keeps mouths shut.
Micah doesn’t know any of this. Not the messages. Not the leverage. He just knows the pressure eased, like a storm passed without breaking anything. He thanks me one night, quiet, sincere.
“I don’t know what you did,” he says, “but… it’s calmer.”
I meet his eyes. “I told you I’d handle it.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”
There’s trust there now. Not blind. Not complete. But growing.
As he turns to leave, I watch the way he moves, the way his presence rearranges a room without him trying. Max saw it too. Alison sees it. They all do.
The difference is this:They’re afraid of it.
I’m not.
I close my laptop, satisfied, already thinking three steps ahead. Max was a test. A warning shot.
Proof that threats don’t always announce themselves and that they can be silenced without anyone noticing they ever spoke.
Micah thinks the danger is outside.
He thinks I’m the shield.
I let him believe that.