Chapter 39 Escalating Attacks
Micah POV
I could feel eyes on me the next morning before I even reached the gym doors. The whispers hit first, soft, oily, sticking to my skin like humidity. People didn’t usually stare this long unless someone had handed them a reason. And the moment I caught Alison’s smug little glance from across the hallway, phone in her hand, I knew exactly where they got it.
My notifications had blown up overnight, random tags, vague memes, posts about “forbidden hookups” and “captains choosing favorites.” Nothing said my name, but the timing was too perfect. Too pointed. I stepped closer to one of the posts, squinting at Alison’s update: “Funny how some people get extra drills… and extra attention ” A chill ran up my spine. She wanted people to fill in the blanks. And they were.
Before I could process any of it, Dante brushed past me, close enough that his arm grazed mine. Not an accident. Never an accident. His hand briefly caught my hip as he passed, guiding me toward the gym entrance like he owned the air around me. My breath caught, sharp and embarrassing. He didn’t say a word, just gave me that look – low-lidded, knowing – before the door swung open in front of me.
Inside, the team shifted uncomfortably when I walked in. Three guys stood by the bleachers, whispering, eyes flicking between me and Dante like they were watching a slow-motion car crash. I overheard one of them mutter, “Alison said she saw them alone again last night.” My stomach twisted, even though it wasn’t true. Or… not completely true.
Dante strode to the center of the court, all calm authority, as if the building itself leaned toward him. “Warm-up laps,” he ordered. “Eyes forward.” But while everyone started jogging, he drifted toward me again, close enough that his fingers skimmed the small of my back. A low whisper slipped out of him: “Ignore them.” My heart kicked too hard. “Dante..” “Run,” he interrupted, voice soft but leaving no space to argue. “I’ll handle it.”
So I ran. But every lap tightened something in my chest – fear, shame, something darker I didn’t want to name. Each time I circled the court, Dante’s eyes tracked me like a spotlight, steady and unblinking. I should’ve hated that. I didn’t.
During ball handling drills, Max came over, voice low and cracking. “Micah, listen – Alison told me something.” I tensed, palms sweating against the ball. “What?” Max’s face tightened. “She thinks you’re in trouble. With Dante. She said you, she said he has you under his thumb.” My throat closed. “She’s lying.” “Is she?” Max pressed, stepping closer. “Because you’re not talking to me anymore. And every time I look at you, Dante’s right there..”
He didn’t get to finish. Dante appeared behind me, hand sliding onto my shoulder with a slow, deliberate pressure. “Micah,” Dante said calmly, “switch to shooting drills. With me.” He didn’t even look at Max. Not once. But the message was loud as hell. Max’s jaw clenched. “You’re not his coach. Stop acting like..” Dante cut him off with a quiet laugh that somehow hit harder than yelling. “You’re absolutely right, Max. I’m not his coach.” He stepped closer, fingers tightening slightly on my shoulder. “But he listens to me.”
Heat flooded my face, humiliation and something else twining painfully tight. Max stared at me like I’d betrayed him. “Micah… seriously?” I couldn’t speak. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. Dante guided me away with a hand on my hip – bold enough to draw stares, subtle enough that only someone paying attention would notice the possessiveness in it.
My legs moved without me deciding. My breath shook. My skin burned where he touched me. When we reached the far corner of the court, Dante handed me a ball and leaned in close, voice a whisper meant to settle under my skin. “You don’t talk to Max about us.” “There is no ‘us,’” I muttered, but it sounded weak even to me. Dante’s smile sharpened. “You’re shaking again.”
I shot the ball too fast, missing the rim by a mile. Dante caught it effortlessly and stepped behind me, placing one hand on my waist and the other over my wrist. “Slow,” he murmured. “Feel the line of the shot.” His breath brushed my neck. My knees nearly buckled. “Dante… people are watching.” “Good,” he murmured. “Let them.” My pulse skittered painfully.
He adjusted my stance, his grip firm, grounding, invasive. When the ball left my hands and hit the net cleanly, something electric shot through me pride, relief, the addictive rush of his approval. “Again,” he said softly. And I did. Over and over. Because it felt good. Because he made it feel good.
By the end of practice, my performance was better than it had been in weeks. The guys noticed. They gave me nods, fist bumps, impressed looks I’d never gotten before. My chest warmed, confidence buzzing. But every time I looked up, Dante’s eyes were waiting – like he’d done it, like he’d built this version of me with his bare hands.
When practice ended and we filed toward the locker room, I heard voices around the corner sharp whispers. Alison’s voice, dripping with venom. “I mean, come on. Have you seen them? Micah jumps when Dante breathes. He’s basically Dante’s toy at this point.” My whole body froze. That word toy should’ve burned. Should’ve lit me on fire with humiliation, anger, something clean. But instead… something low and hot and terrifying twisted deep in my chest. I hated it. I hated that I didn’t hate it.
I backed away before anyone saw me, heart pounding, breath shaking. I didn’t know what scared me more Alison’s words, or the fact that a small, shameful part of me wondered if maybe… maybe she wasn’t wrong. And that thought followed me all the way down the hall like a hand at the back of my neck, pushing me somewhere darker than I meant to go.