Chapter five
501 Words
He said, “Game on.”
And somehow, the gym felt smaller. Quieter. Like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for something electric.
Dante Valtieri was looking at me like I was more than just a girl with a basketball. Like I was… a puzzle he wanted to figure out.
And I hated that it made my heart race.
“First to five?” I ask, masking the shake in my voice.
He nods, stepping back, rolling his sleeves up slowly like he knows it’ll distract me. It does.
But I keep my grip on the ball firm.
The first point is mine.
He lets it happen, I know. A smirk tugging at his lips as I pivot around him and sink the shot.
“One,” I say.
“Show-off,” he replies under his breath.
Second round? He blocks me. Not aggressively—just enough to make a point.
He’s fast. Not just with his feet, but with his mind. I see it in the way he anticipates my moves, studies my body language.
He’s not just playing.
He’s reading me.
By the time we’re tied at four, we’re sweating, breathless, and standing too close again.
I dribble once, twice—then fake left and shoot.
Score.
“Five.”
His eyes stay on me. Not the ball. Me.
“So,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Your turn. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
He runs a hand through his dark hair. His chest rises and falls with each breath. And then—he walks up slowly, eyes locked on mine.
“I don’t actually like the noise,” he says.
“What?”
“The parties. The girls. The constant attention. It’s a distraction. I let it all happen so no one asks real questions.”
Something heavy settles in my chest.
“Then why let them think—?”
“Because it’s easier to let people assume I’m hollow than let them see where I’m cracked.”
My heart stutters.
This boy. This frustrating, unreadable boy.
He just gave me something real.
“You’re not hollow,” I whisper.
He looks down. Then lifts his hand—slowly, like he’s asking permission—and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Your turn,” he says.
“To tell you something real?”
“No,” he murmurs. “To let someone in.”
I blink up at him.
And I don’t know what comes over me, but I step forward—just a little—and rest my forehead against his chest.
He doesn’t move.
His arms come up, unsure at first, then wrap around me like he’s been waiting to hold something soft for a very long time.
No kisses.
No words.
Just a heartbeat. And another. And mine, finally calming.
Maybe this is how it starts.
Not with fireworks or breathless confessions.
But with silence. Stillness.
Two people choosing not to run for the first time.
- Writer
