Chapter 9 SHARED PRACTICE
Micah’s POV
The gym is quieter than usual when I walk in, the lights dimmed to a low glow that makes the polished floor look darker and more serious. I tell myself that’s normal, that early sessions are always like this. Still, my chest tightens when I spot Dante already there, stretching near center court like he owns the space even when no one else is around.
“Morning,” he says, straightening when he notices me. His voice is calm, steady, like this is just another routine thing. I nod back, rolling my shoulders, trying not to look as tense as I feel.
“Didn’t know we were doing solo work today,” I say, dropping my bag near the bench. The echo of my voice sounds too loud in the empty gym. He smiles faintly, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Coach asked me to help you catch up,” he replies. “Partner session. Just us.”
That word just lands heavier than it should. I swallow and step onto the court, telling myself this is about basketball and nothing else. I stretch, bounce on my toes, and try not to notice the way his eyes track every movement like he’s memorizing me in real time.
We start with drills, fast and relentless. Dante doesn’t ease me into it, doesn’t ask if I’m ready, just launches straight into sprints and ball-handling sequences. He calls out instructions sharply, pacing the court like a general, and I scramble to keep up.
“Again,” he says when I fumble a pass. “You’re hesitating.”
“I’m tired,” I snap, breath coming fast. Sweat drips down my spine, my legs already burning. He steps closer, not touching, but close enough that I feel his presence like heat.
“You’ll be tired in games too,” he says evenly. “Push through.”
Something in his tone makes me grit my teeth instead of arguing. I run it again, and again, lungs screaming, muscles trembling. When I finally nail the sequence, he nods once, approval sharp and brief, and the rush of it hits me harder than I expect.
We move on to shooting drills, Dante rebounding for me with effortless precision. Every time he passes the ball back, his fingers brush mine, just barely, like it’s an accident. My heart jumps every single time, and I hate myself for it.
“Focus,” he murmurs when my shot goes wide. He steps behind me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel his breath near my ear. “Square your shoulders.”
I adjust, painfully aware of how close he is. The next shot swishes cleanly through the net. My chest tightens, pride and something darker twisting together.
“See?” he says softly. “You’ve got it.”
By the time we break for water, my shirt is soaked through and my arms feel like rubber. I collapse onto the bench, gulping from my bottle, head spinning. Dante sits beside me, close enough that our knees almost touch, and doesn’t say anything for a moment.
“You’re pushing me harder than Coach does,” I finally say, half a complaint, half a confession. I don’t look at him when I say it. He chuckles quietly, low and controlled.
“Coach wants results,” he replies. “I want you ready.”
Ready for what, I almost ask, but the question sticks in my throat. Instead, I stand and start stretching, trying to work the ache out of my legs. Dante joins me, mirroring my movements without comment.
We stretch in silence, the air between us thick with things unsaid. When I bend forward, I feel his gaze on me, steady and intense, like he’s not even trying to hide it. I straighten too quickly, dizziness washing over me, and he’s there instantly.
“Easy,” he says, hand hovering near my elbow without quite touching. “You’re lightheaded.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, though my voice wobbles. He doesn’t argue, just watches me with that same unreadable focus. It makes my skin prickle.
“Sit for a second,” he says. “That’s not a suggestion.”
I sink back onto the bench, annoyed at myself for obeying so easily. He hands me his water bottle without thinking, and I take a sip before realizing what I’ve done. The plastic is warm from his grip.
“Sorry,” I mutter, handing it back. He shrugs, unbothered.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. His eyes flick to my mouth for just a second too long. I notice, and my pulse spikes.
We finish with light drills, but the intensity never really drops. Dante corrects my stance, my timing, my breathing, always just close enough to make my nerves buzz. I’m exhausted, but there’s a strange energy humming under my skin, something close to exhilaration.
When we finally stop, I sink down onto the floor, back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. My chest rises and falls rapidly, every breath a reminder of how far he pushed me. Dante stands over me for a moment, arms crossed, expression thoughtful.
“You did good,” he says. “Better than I expected.”
I laugh weakly. “That’s comforting.”
He smiles, a real one this time, and offers me a hand up. I hesitate, then take it. His grip is firm, grounding, and he doesn’t let go immediately. The contact sends a jolt straight through me.
“You okay?” he asks quietly. His voice is different now, lower, almost gentle. I nod, though I’m not entirely sure it’s true.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… tired.”
He releases my hand and steps back, giving me space like he’s suddenly remembered some invisible line. The shift leaves me oddly unsettled. I pack my bag in silence, trying to sort through the mess of sensations and thoughts swirling in my head.
As we walk out together, I catch him watching me in the reflection of the glass doors. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet. Instead, he holds my gaze, something unreadable flickering there.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks casually. My heart stutters.
“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t know why I agree so quickly.
Back in the suite later, I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, body aching in a way that feels almost good. My mind keeps replaying the session, his voice, his closeness, the way his eyes lingered during stretches. None of it adds up neatly.
He says it’s mentorship. He acts like it’s strategy. But there’s something else underneath, something that makes my chest tighten and my thoughts spiral. I don’t know what Dante wants from me, or what game he’s really playing.
All I know is that when he looks at me like that, I feel seen and unsettled all at once. And that scares me more than the exhaustion ever could.