Chapter 3 - Physics and Heartbeats

The late afternoon sun was hanging low in the sky, painting the basketball court in heavy, liquid strokes of gold.

Every bounce of the ball echoed against the weathered brick walls of the gymnasium like a heartbeat, rhythmic and insistent. Michael was loud, his laughter booming across the asphalt as he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to keep up, but Uriel… Uriel was something else entirely.

His movements were precise, almost mathematical, like every step and shot had been calculated in advance by a master architect. Watching him was like watching gravity bend to his will while the rest of us were stuck to the ground.

Selima elbowed me sharply in the ribs, her grin wicked and far too knowing.

“See that? Physics in motion, Mehanda. He probably knows the exact angle of every shot before he even touches the ball. Look at those arms,” she whispered, bubbling with mischief. “That’s not just basketball, that’s art designed specifically to make you lose your mind. You’re staring again, by the way.”

I swallowed hard, my throat feeling as dry as sun-bleached bone.

My eyes refused to leave him for even a single second. The way his white shirt clung to his broad shoulders, the way sweat glistened at his temple before carving a path down his jawline, it was ridiculous how perfect he looked. My stomach twisted into a frantic, nervous braid, and I hated how obvious I must have been.

My imagination ran wild, untethered and burning with desire.

Behind my eyelids, a vivid vision burned: those massive muscles looming over me, flexing and bunching with raw power while the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips drove me toward the edge of sanity. I saw my legs spread wide to welcome him, opening to him, not just in body but also in spirit, anchoring him to me as though we were bound by something greater than flesh. As he worked his dark magic with my body, my fingers tangled desperately in those thick, sun-kissed golden locks. In the heat of that fire, my moans were breathless and hoarse, a wrecked, beautiful sound as I cried out his name again and again in the throes of ultimate, shattering ecstasy.

“Stop drooling,” Selima hissed, her eyes sparkling. “You’re going to flood the bleachers, and I didn’t bring my life jacket today.”

“I’m not—I was just... I was just observing the technique,” I started, but my voice betrayed me. It was too soft, too shaky, and lacked even a hint of conviction.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? ‘Observing the technique’?” Selima teased, leaning her weight against my shoulder. “Because your face is currently the color of a fire engine, and you haven't blinked in three minutes. Admit it, Mehanda. You aren't looking at the ball. You're looking at the man.”

“He’s... he’s just a very focused player,” I muttered, trying to pull my gaze away.

“Focused? Girl, he’s a god in high-tops,” she snickered.

Uriel leapt, his body stretching toward the sky with a fluidity that made my breath hitch in my chest. The ball arced through the air in a perfect, high curve before sinking into the hoop with effortless grace. Michael groaned, throwing his hands up in mock despair.

“Man, you’re impossible! Do you even have a pulse, or are you just a shooting robot from the future?” Michael shouted, wiping his face with the hem of his jersey.

Uriel just smiled faintly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. That smile—quiet, unassuming, but devastating—made my pulse race faster than the game itself. It was the kind of smile that didn't ask for attention but stole every bit of it anyway.

Selima leaned closer, her voice low and thick with playful malice.

“Imagine him explaining the laws of motion to you while looking like that. You’d fail physics twice just to hear him talk, wouldn't you? You’d be there in the front row, staring at those lips while he talks about velocity and friction. Mostly friction.”

“Selima! Shut up!” I gasped, feeling the heat flare up my neck. “He’s right there! He might hear you!”

“Good! Maybe he needs to know he’s causing a one-woman heatwave on the sidelines,” she replied with a laugh.

I pressed my palms against my knees, trying to steady the frantic trembling in my hands.

“He’s… he’s just good at sports, Selima. It’s not a spiritual experience,” I muttered, though even I didn’t believe my own words.

“Honey, for you, it’s a full-blown religious pilgrimage,” she whispered. “Look at him. He’s looking over here.”

My heart stopped. I refused to look up. “No, he isn't. He’s looking at Michael.”

“He is definitely looking at you, Mehanda. Don't be a coward. Look up. Give him a smile. Not a ‘guillotine’ smile, a real one!”

The final bell finally rang in the distance, scattering the few remaining students across the yard. Michael clapped Uriel on the back, still laughing about some missed foul, while Uriel gathered his things with that same calm composure that made him seem like he was untouchable. Selima suddenly stood up, grabbing my wrist with a grip of iron.

“Parking lot. Now. No excuses, no retreating, and absolutely no fainting,” she ordered, dragging me down from the bleachers.

“Wait! Selima, my bag. I need to fix my hair!” I protested, stumbling after her.

“Your hair is fine! It looks ‘effortlessly messy.’ It’s a vibe. Just keep walking,” she commanded.

The air outside was cooler and softer than the stuffy gymnasium, carrying the faint scent of exhaust, freshly cut grass, and fading sunlight.

And there it was … Uriel’s truck, gleaming like something out of a high-end commercial. It was expensive and black, the kind of vehicle that announced his presence before he even stepped inside. It looked just like him: powerful, silent, and a little bit intimidating.

I frowned as it finally hit me—Uriel was seriously loaded.

This limited‑edition truck, the designer clothes, that polished, effortless vibe… it all screamed a world I didn’t belong to. For a moment, I hesitated, doubt creeping in. My nerves buzzed like static, making me wonder if I was in way over my head. Was I chasing something too far beyond reach, or just a moth drawn to a flame bound to burn me?

Selima nudged me again, her eyes sparkling with a dangerous, predatory kind of light.