CHAPTER 4

Axel's POV.

My hands were still trembling at my sides.

Nobody noticed. To everyone in the gym, I probably looked completely relaxed—unbothered and cold. That was the curse of my face. Whenever my chest felt like it was caving in from panic, my expression just turned completely blank. Like a stone wall.

In reality, my heart had been pounding for twenty minutes.

Every single time Ethan stepped into my space during the scrimmage, my brain short-circuited. When he put his forearm against my hip on defense, pressing his sweaty chest against mine, the heat of his skin burned right through my jersey. He was so close I could smell him.

And then he had barked right into my ear: "Right here, pretty boy. Let's see what you've got."

Pretty boy.

The words sent a shiver through me. It wasn't an insult, and it didn't make me angry. His furious voice made my breath catch, and I almost lost my dribble. Nobody had ever talked to me like that. People either spoke to me politely because of my family’s name, or stayed away because they thought I was a snob.

Ethan didn't care about my family. He didn't care about my money. He just wanted to tear me apart with his bare hands.

And I couldn't stop staring at him.

The block hadn't been calculated. I hadn't done it to show off.

When Ethan grabbed the ball and screamed at Julian to clear the paint, I saw the desperation in his eyes. He attacked the rim with everything he had, muscles straining as he launched into the air.

My body had just reacted. Twelve years of private training coaches drilling defensive footwork into my muscle memory took over before my brain could stop it. I jumped. I timed his release.

WHACK.

The ball flew off my palm and slammed into the empty bleachers.

Ethan hit the floor hard. He skidded across the polished floor, landing on his hip, his chest heaving as he stared up at me.

I looked down at him.

The gym was completely quiet, but the look on Ethan's face made a wave of cold nausea wash over my stomach. His eyes weren't just angry anymore. They were filled with raw, unfiltered poison. He looked humiliated. He looked like I had just reached into his chest and ripped his heart out in front of everyone he cared about.

I'm sorry, I wanted to say. The words sat heavy on my tongue. I didn't mean to do that. Are you okay? Did you hurt your hip?

My jaw locked. My throat tightened like a hand was squeezing it shut. No sound came out. Instead of helping him up like a normal human being, I did what I always did when panic took over: I turned my back, wiped my forearm across my face, and walked away.

"Holy shit!" Mike’s voice cut through the silence like a saw. He ran over from the wing, clapping his hands and laughing loudly. "Yo, transfer! You just sent the Captain into the shadow realm! Did you see that?! He sent that shit to the nosebleeds!"

Mike raised his hand to slap my chest in celebration.

I took half a step back, dodging his hand entirely.

His hand hung in the air for a second, his grin fading. He lowered his arm, irritation flashing across his face. “What, you too good to high-five your own teammates now?”

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I kept my head down and walked toward the bench to grab my water bottle.

"Alright, that’s enough!" Coach Davis blew his whistle twice, sharp and loud. "Black team wins, twenty-one to fourteen. White team, you've got five baseline drills. Let's go, on the line!"

Ethan was already on his feet. He didn't look at Coach. He didn't look at Julian. He marched straight to the baseline, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the floor, his jaw set like iron.

"White team, on the line now!" Ethan barked, his voice filled with fury. "Don't look at them! Look at the wood! Let's go!"

I stood near the bench, taking a slow sip of water from my bottle. I watched Ethan run.

He didn't pace himself. He sprinted from baseline to free-throw line, slapping the floor hard and pivoting sharply. He was punishing himself. Every stride was fueled by pure, bitter rage.

He hates me, I thought, the knot in my stomach tightening until it actually ached. He truly, completely hates me.

I capped my water bottle, picked up my gym bag, and headed for the locker room before the White team finished their sprints. I couldn't be in the gym when Ethan walked off that baseline. I didn't think I could survive another look from him.

The locker room was empty and quiet when I walked in.

I sat down on the bench in the corner, leaning my forearms against my knees, staring at the gray floor tiles. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing.

In for four seconds. Hold for four. Out for four.

That was what the therapist my father hired three years ago told me to do. It rarely worked, but it gave my mind something to count instead of spiraling into the dark.

A few minutes later, the doors banged open.

The White team trudged in, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Ethan walked in first. He ripped his scrimmage pinnie off his chest, throwing it into the laundry bin with enough force that the plastic bin rattled against the wall.

"Bullshit," Ethan muttered, walking over to his locker. "Absolute fucking bullshit."

Julian followed behind him, his shoulders slumped. "Ethan, chill out, man. It was just one scrimmage."

"It's not just one scrimmage, Julian!" Ethan snapped, slamming his locker door open. "Did you see Coach's face? He was drooling over him! The guy doesn't even set his feet on his jump shot, and Coach looks at him like he’s Michael Jordan!"

Julian sat down on the bench, unlacing his sneakers. "He’s good, E. You gotta admit it. That block was insane."

"I don't have to admit shit!" Ethan pulled his sneakers off and threw them onto the floor. "He got lucky! He’s soft! He won't last three games in this district once teams start throwing real elbows at him!"

Every single word felt like a physical blow against my ribs.

I didn't move. I kept my back to them, pulling my clean black hoodie over my head and zipping my duffel bag with shaking fingers. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to turn into dust and blow out the ventilation shafts.

Mike walked in from the showers, a towel slung around his neck, grinning like an idiot. "Hey, Captain. How does the floor taste? Mercer gave you a pretty good look at it today."

Ethan spun around so fast his locker door swung shut with a deafening bang. "Mike, shut your fucking mouth before I give you something to cry about."

"Try it, Thorne," Mike challenged, stepping closer. "You're not the big dog around here anymore. Mercer owns you. Everyone saw it."

"Both of you, shut the hell up!" Julian stood up, stepping between them with his hands out. "Coach is right outside his office! You want us all suspended before opening night?!"

Ethan glared at Mike for three more seconds, chest heaving. Then he let out a harsh breath and turned away.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, grabbed my keys, and walked out the door before anyone could drag me into the fight.

The hallway outside the athletic wing was cooler, but my shirt still clung to my back from anxiety.

I quickened my pace toward the doors leading to the student parking lot. If I could just get to my car, I could lock the doors, turn on the air conditioning, and sit in the silence until my hands stopped shaking.

"Hey! Transfer!"

A voice called out from behind the water fountain.

I froze, my shoulders tensing instantly. Standing by the lockers was the girl from this morning. Ethan’s friend.

She was petite, with long, glossy dark hair that fell past her shoulders, wearing an oversized vintage jacket and high-waisted jeans. She had a silver ring in her lower lip and was holding her phone in one hand while twirling a car key around her index finger with the other.

She had been leaning against the wall, but the second she saw me, she pushed off and stepped directly into my path.

"You're Axel, right?" she asked, tilting her head and looking up at me with sharp dark eyes.

My mouth went completely dry.

"Yes," I managed to say. The word barely qualified as a whisper.

She smiled, completely unfazed by my lack of volume. "I’m Emily. I saw you this morning with Coach Davis. And then I heard from about six different people that you completely destroyed my best friend during scrimmage."

“I didn’t…” I started, but my voice failed me.

"Oh, don't apologize," Emily laughed, waving her hand dismissively. "Honestly, Ethan needed to be humbled. His ego has been out of control lately. He’s been acting like he's the only person on this entire campus who knows how to bounce a basketball. It’s giving massive main character syndrome."

I stared at her, completely lost.

"Anyway," she continued, taking half a step closer. She smelled strongly of vanilla and strawberry lip gloss. "I saw your game tape online. Well, someone posted a clip of your old game on T*****r. You have insane aura on the court, Axel. Like, truly unhinged rizz without even trying. It’s crazy."

I blinked twice, my brain desperately trying to translate the words coming out of her mouth. What was she talking about?

"Um," I stammered, gripping the inside of my hoodie pocket. "Thank you."

"You don't talk much, do you?" Emily’s grin widened, looking thoroughly amused. She crossed her arms, tapping her phone against her forearm. "It’s fine. The mysterious, brooding athlete thing really works for you. Most of the guys here never shut up, and ninety percent of what they say is pure brainrot. Mike is literally cooked. He has negative ten thousand aura."

I had no idea what a 'cooked' Mike meant, but I agreed that Mike was awful, so I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Right? You get it," Emily said, taking my nod as total agreement. She unlocked her phone and held it out toward me. "So, look. Ethan is going to be moping around for the rest of the day, and I refuse to listen to him whine about his shooting percentage all afternoon. Are you going to that party by the lake this Friday? Or are you too cool for high school parties?"

"I don't... go to parties," I said, forcing the words out with an awkward smile.

"Even better," Emily chuckled, her eyes flashing playfully. "Then you definitely need someone to show you around town so you don't spend your entire senior year rotting in your room. Give me your number."

My heart lurched.

A girl was asking for my number. Not just any girl—Ethan’s best friend.

The hallway suddenly felt airless. My throat tightened, worse than it had all day. If I gave her my number, she would text me. She would call me. She would expect me to hold conversations, to hang out, to be normal. I couldn't even order a sandwich at a deli without rehearsing the sentence five times in my head first.

And worse, she was Ethan’s friend. If Ethan found out I was talking to her, he would think I was trying to steal his best friend on top of stealing his starting spot on the team.

“I…” My lips moved, but my voice wouldn't come.

"Come on, Mercer," Emily teased, wiggling her phone slightly. "I don't bite. Unless you're secretly dating someone back at your old school? Because if you have a girlfriend, you should speak now, or else my followers are going to think I’m barking up the wrong tree."

I stood frozen, my feet glued to the floor. My palms were slick with sweat inside my pockets. I couldn't move forward or back. I just stared at her phone screen, my jaw clenched so tightly my teeth hurt.

Say no, my mind screamed. Just say you don't have a phone. Say you're busy. Say anything!

The locker room doors flew open with a violent bang.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall.

“Leave him alone, Em,” a voice snarled, sharp with anger.

I snapped my head up.

Ethan was marching toward us, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes were burning into mine, his face twisted into an expression of utter disgust.

He came to a stop right beside Emily, looking down at me with curling lips.

"The pretty boy thinks he’s too good to talk to people like us.”