The Assist

Chapter 7

I should’ve said no.

I really should’ve.

When Liam Ramirez messaged me—out of nowhere—inviting me to his game as “ research material for future podcast topics," I almost laughed.

Almost.

But instead, I stared at my phone for ten full minutes before typing:

Me:

Research? That’s what we’re calling it now?

Liam:

Unless you’re scared you might enjoy it.

Cocky. As always.

And maybe I hated that a small part of me was scared.

Not of the game.

Not of seeing him in action.

But of what I’d feel if I did enjoy it.

Still, I said yes.

I arrived late.

Blame it on the traffic, or my crippling indecision that had me changing outfits four times before settling on a black hoodie and jeans.

Simple. Unassuming. Safe.

The sports complex was packed when I slipped in. Fans were everywhere—mostly students screaming for green and white, some holding hand-drawn signs that said “#LiamForLife” and “Captain Ramirez, Marry Me!”

I rolled my eyes.

Of course he had fangirls.

I found my seat near the edge of the bleachers, right where he told me to go. Special guest pass, apparently. My name was on a list.

That detail shouldn’t have made my stomach flutter.

But it did.

When he walked onto the court, the energy changed. The crowd didn’t scream—they roared.

And I understood why.

He moved like he owned the floor. Sharp, focused, lethal.

No hesitation. No wasted effort. Every glance, every pass, every shot—precise.

I wasn’t even into basketball, but watching him play? That was something else.

It wasn’t about fame. Or attention. Or pressure.

It was control.

It was clarity.

And for a moment, I forgot every roast I’d ever made about toxic athlete culture, because here he was, making the game look like poetry.

He caught my gaze once during a timeout.

I didn’t smile.

Neither did he.

But the corner of his mouth tugged upward before he turned back to his team.

God help me.

They won, obviously.

And somehow, I found myself walking beside him outside the coliseum thirty minutes later, carrying a drink he bought me with my name spelled wrong on the cup.

“Maxxine with two X’s?” I raised an eyebrow.

He laughed. “Okay, I might’ve done that on purpose.”

“Bakit?”

“Parang bagay sa’yo,” he said, glancing down. “One X for your sarcasm. One for your bite.”

I snorted. “I should walk away right now.”

“But you won’t.”

“Confident ka masyado.”

He stopped in front of his car and leaned against it, arms crossed.

“No,” he said softly. “I just think you liked being here more than you thought you would.”

That shut me up.

Because he was right.

It did feel nice, watching him like that. Cheering quietly in my seat. Seeing the real Liam—focused, intense, not just the flirt everyone warned me about.

And when he looked at me again, slower this time, I knew he felt it too.

That shift.

That almost-something.

“I’m not going to kiss you, Max,” he said, almost teasing.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I know you’re waiting for me to try something so you can pull away. But I won’t.”

“Wow. So now you read minds?”

“No.” His eyes softened. “But I’m starting to read you.”

That—that—shouldn’t have made my chest ache.

But it did.

So I laughed. Forced and light. “This still counts as research, right?”

He smiled, slow and smug. “Sure. Call it field work.”

I shook my head and opened the passenger door. “Let’s go, Ramirez. Before I change my mind about not throwing my drink at you.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just walked around to the driver’s side.

But before he got in, he said one more thing—too quiet, almost like it wasn’t for me to hear.

“But you won’t. Not tonight.”

The car ride back was quiet.

Not awkward. Just… charged.

Every few minutes, I’d glance at him, trying to read his face in the orange glow of the streetlights. But Liam Ramirez was impossible to decode. One second he’s grinning like a smug devil, the next he’s just… quiet. Like he’s carrying something heavy he refuses to drop.

And me?

I was a mess.

I told myself this was just research. That I was only observing him for future content, not trying to memorize the lines of his jaw or the shape of his hands on the steering wheel.

Not wondering what his voice would sound like whispering my name.

“Do you always overthink this much?” he asked, breaking the silence.

I stiffened. “What?”

“You’re quiet. But your energy’s loud.”

I rolled my eyes, hiding the sudden panic in my chest. “Maybe I’m just tired of your voice.”

He smirked. “You love my voice.”

“I tolerate it.”

“Same thing.”

I scoffed and looked out the window, but I could feel his eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.

I hated how he could see through me like that.

“Tell me something real, Max,” he said quietly. “Something off the record.”

I turned to him, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I want to know you. Not the podcast version. Not the viral clip. Just… you.”

The way he said it made my chest tighten.

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know how.

Because no one ever asked to know me without an agenda. Without wanting to fix or challenge or use me.

And here he was—Liam freaking Ramirez—asking for something real when I least expected it.

So I said the first thing that came to mind.

“My dad left when I was eleven,” I whispered. “He said he was going on a trip. Never came back.”

Liam didn’t flinch. Didn’t pity me. Just nodded.

“That’s why you don’t like boys who leave things half-said.”

I stared at him, stunned. “How—?”

“You’re sharp. Brave. But when it comes to people… you don’t trust them to stay.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Unavoidable.

And then he pulled up in front of my dorm.

I didn’t move.

Neither did he.

I looked at him, heart pounding, unsure what I wanted more—space or closeness.

He leaned in slightly, not enough to kiss me, but enough to make my breath hitch.

“No moves tonight,” he said again. “But I meant what I said. I want to know you.”

I swallowed hard. “And if I don’t want to be known?”

He tilted his head. “Then I’ll wait.”

God.

Why does that hurt more than a kiss?

I opened the door and stepped out, gripping my cup like it could anchor me.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, unsure if I meant for the ride, the drink, or the unexpected honesty.

He smiled, soft this time. “Anytime, Max.”

And just like that, he drove away.

No pressure. No lingering expectations.

Just… him.

Leaving me standing there, stupid cup in hand, heart full of questions I wasn’t ready to ask.