Chapter 53 National Announcement
(Micah POV)
I pressed my back against the cold wall, sliding down slowly until my legs were bent, knees drawn to my chest, and my fingers curled into the fabric of my hoodie. My chest heaved with a rhythm I couldn’t control, every inhale sharp, panicked, like the air itself was betraying me. Dante had walked away only moments ago, his eyes still locked on mine just long enough to make me feel exposed, claimed, trapped, and I was left here, trembling, wishing I could disappear into the wall itself. The hallways buzzed faintly around me locker doors clanging, muffled footsteps but the noise didn’t reach me. I was drowning inside my own mind, the shadow of the scandal creeping in like smoke, threading its way through every nerve, every thought.
My phone vibrated against the floor beside me. I didn’t reach for it. Not yet. I already knew what awaited me. Notifications stacked like a wall I could never climb mentions, tags, posts, whispers from accounts I didn’t even recognize. My stomach twisted in knots at the thought of someone digging up the past I had tried so desperately to lock away. Even a vague hint was enough to make my hands shake. Every little beep felt like a countdown to exposure, like the world was watching me and Dante would know immediately. And he always knew.
I forced my eyes to the floor, trying to shrink, trying to make myself small enough that no one could find me in the hallway. But my thoughts betrayed me, pulling me back to Dante’s eyes the way he had watched me with that sharp precision, like he could read every fear, every hesitation, every moment of weakness. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even touched me after stepping away, and yet the weight of his gaze lingered like a brand across my skin. My chest ached with confusion. Desire tangled with fear, and I hated myself for feeling it. For wanting him even when he scared me. For feeling safe in his presence, even when the walls were closing in.
The hallway felt impossibly long. I imagined Dante turning back, his silhouette framing the fluorescent lights at the end, his steps quiet but deliberate, each one a warning that he could be anywhere, watching, waiting. My phone buzzed again, louder this time, shaking against the tile. I finally picked it up, and my thumb hovered over the screen, too afraid to look. Notifications swarmed me like insects, little bites of panic.
Someone had started sharing something about me, something from months ago blurred enough to not be obvious but pointed enough to make me want to sink into the ground.
I thought about the upcoming national tournament, about the cameras, the press, the scrutiny, and the judges’ eyes. My stomach clenched. What if someone recognized me? What if they remembered the whispers, the videos, the mistakes I had buried? I couldn’t breathe properly. I felt like a performer who had forgotten the choreography, standing center stage while the audience waited for him to fall apart. My hands trembled around the phone, and for a moment I wanted to throw it across the hall, smash the little device that carried my shame into the world. But I couldn’t. The fear of Dante seeing, knowing, noticing it pinned me in place, tighter than any grip could.
The memory of Dante pulling me to his side during the team meeting came back in sharp flashes his hand on my waist, his eyes commanding, his presence magnetic. Everyone had noticed, of course. I had felt their whispers like needles against my skin, the subtle shift of energy as teammates glanced at us, their expressions caught between curiosity and judgment. And yet, under Dante’s shadow, under his possession, I had felt almost… untouchable. Safe. Even with the scandal threatening to consume me, even with my chest tightening with every new notification, his proximity had been a tether, a lifeline. And that made me angry at myself. Angry that I craved it. Angry that I couldn’t fight it.
I tried to stand, rocking back on my heels, but my legs felt like jelly. Panic clawed at me from the inside out. My phone lit up again a tag, a comment, someone laughing, someone accusing. I clenched it until the edges dug into my palm. My thoughts spiraled. People would see. People would judge. People would use it against me. And Dante… Dante would know. He would know before I even had a chance to breathe, before I could lie or hide or deflect. My chest tightened again, my heart hammering. I could almost hear his voice in my head, smooth and sharp: “You don’t fall unless I let you.”
The memory made me shiver. Not just from fear, but from something else something deeper, more dangerous. Desire mixed with dependence. My mind went to the way he had held me, the way he had pressed against me during drills, the way his gaze had claimed me, locked me in place, made me feel that every move I made belonged to him.
Even now, standing or rather slumping alone against the wall, I could feel it, like invisible hands guiding, controlling, shaping me. It should have terrified me completely, and part of it did. But another part… another part of me ached for it. For him. For that twisted safety and ownership that only Dante could provide.
I breathed in slowly, trying to calm myself, trying to push the spiraling panic down. My hands still shook, but I gripped the wall behind me, grounding myself. The thought of facing the team meeting again, of standing in front of coaches, cameras, and teammates, made my knees wobble. And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the shame, beneath the weight of the scandal creeping toward me, I felt it again the tether. The pull. Dante’s presence wrapping around me even when he wasn’t physically there, his command over my body, my mind, my reactions.
I took a step forward, shaky, my backpack heavy on my shoulder. Every step toward the gym felt like climbing a mountain. My phone vibrated again, and I finally looked. Another tag. Another comment. The whispers were spreading, and the realization hit me like ice: the world would see soon, whether I was ready or not. And Dante would be waiting. Watching. Knowing.
Controlling. My pulse quickened, not just from panic, but from the undeniable ache of longing, the pull I couldn’t resist.
I imagined him standing at the edge of the gym, watching, assessing, predicting. I could feel his eyes on me even if they weren’t there, shaping every step I took. My fingers brushed against my hoodie, imagining his hands there instead, and I flinched at the thought of wanting it so badly. My stomach twisted with fear, shame, and desire, all tangled in a tight knot. I hated that he had this power over me, and yet I couldn’t fight it, couldn’t pull away, couldn’t breathe without thinking of his proximity.
The national tournament loomed, a storm on the horizon, cameras poised, and people ready to watch my every mistake. The scandal vague, creeping, dangerous threatened to expose me before I even stepped on the court. And I knew, with bone-deep certainty, that Dante would be there, tethered to me, demanding my focus, my body, my eyes. No one else could have me. No one else would touch me. And that both terrified me and made my chest ache with something I couldn’t name, couldn’t fight, couldn’t escape.
I sank to the floor again, sliding fully down the wall, hugging my knees. My phone buzzed relentlessly, the screen full of threats, accusations, and whispers of the past I had tried to bury. I wanted to scream, to run, to disappear completely. But I couldn’t. Because even in the suffocating weight of panic, of shame, of exposure, I knew that when Dante appeared, when he stepped close enough for his presence to consume me, I would melt into it. I would follow him anywhere, even through fear, even through chaos, even into the storm that awaited us at the national tournament.
I whispered his name into the empty hallway, breathless, trembling, heart hammering. And even as my chest tightened with panic and dread, even as the shadows of the scandal stretched toward me, I felt it the tether, the claim, the undeniable, consuming pull of Dante’s control. And in that moment, I knew I wouldn’t run. I wouldn’t fight. I would fall into it, willingly, recklessly, dangerously. Because he was there. He was always there. Watching. Waiting. And I was his.