Micah taps his fingers against the table. “Just hope you’re not one of many, Blair. That jersey looks better when it means something.”
Then he stands and walks away, leaving me with a half-eaten banana, a cold coffee, and a storm rising in my chest.
Am I just another girl to him?
Was breaking down my routines a game to him?
Why is it that Micah’s there at every turn, warning me about Kane?
Fourteen
Kane
The locker room is loud. Music thumps from someone’s speaker, cleats scrape against tile, and the usual trash talk flies across benches like sparks. It’s game day, and the Riverhawks are loose, hyped, ready to tear through whatever team dares to stand in front of them.
But I’m not locked in.
I sit at my locker, elbows on my knees, jersey half on, staring at the concrete like it might give me answers. My phone’s buried in my bag. I haven’t checked it. I won’t. Not yet. Because I don’t know if she’ll show.
I told Blair to meet me before the game. Before the noise. Before the world sees us. But maybe I pushed too hard last night. Maybe the kiss—the way I claimed her, the way I didn’t ask—was too much. She kissed me back. I know she did. But she also looked like she might shatter in my hands.
Across the room, Micah’s laughing with a few of the guys, loud and easy, like he didn’t spend the last week circling Blair like a vulture. He catches my eye for half a second and smirks, just enough to make my jaw tighten.
He’s been waiting for a crack.
And if Blair doesn’t come… maybe he found one.
Micah’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.
“Ran into Blair this morning,” he says, too casually, as he strolls over to my locker. “She was looking extra hot.”
I don’t look up. I keep my elbows on my knees, fists clenched, jaw locked. He’s fishing. I know it. He knows I know it. But he’s still here, still circling, still trying to draw blood without throwing a punch.
“She was wearing that tight black hoodie,” he adds, leaning against the locker beside mine. “Hair pulled back. Real quiet. Real pretty.”
I glance at him, slow and sharp.
He smirks. “Didn’t say much. Just looked… distracted. Thought maybe she was thinking about you. Or maybe not.”
I stand.
Not fast. Not loud. Just enough to shift the air.
Micah doesn’t move. He just watches me, eyes gleaming with something smug. Something bitter. Something that still hasn’t healed from the hit I gave him last week.
“She’s got that look, you know?” he says. “Like she wants to be wanted. By someone who knows what they’re doing.”
I step closer.
He lifts his hands, mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying. You might not be the only one she’s meeting before the game.”
I don’t respond.
Because if I do, I’ll break something.
Micah walks off, laughing under his breath, and the locker room noise rushes back in like a flood. But it’s all static now. All background.
Because the only thing I can hear is her name.
